A Tale of Two Men
by Soldan
Summary: An agonizing scream prevents Javert from killing himself. From that moment on he and Jean Valjean embark upon an adventure that takes them from the streets of Paris to the fields of Picardie. More and more questions remain unanswered as Javert and Valjean discover something about themselves they didn't know.
1. Babel

**A/N: First Les Misérables story, based heavily on the book.**

**English is not my mother language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Also, this story will contain a romantic relationship between the two main characters. It will be a slow building relationship, hopefully tastefully done, but it's going to be here.**

**There's also an author note at the end**_**. **_**Hope you enjoy this story._  
_**

* * *

_**Jack**: That, my dear Algy, is the whole truth pure and simple.  
**Algernon**: The truth is rarely pure and never simple._

Act I, the Importance of being Ernest._  
_

* * *

_The account of the tale we are about to recount may surprise some of the most distracted readers. We believe we are to blame for this lapse. Indeed, for a long time our readers – and even myself unfortunately - were led to believe that the events of Jean Valjean's life had ran in a very different manner than they actually did. Our previous accounts were undoubtedly wrong and it is an unforgivable action not to correct them. We had thought we had the perfect, tragic ending to the moving tale of their lives and so our research was rightly finished. Barely did we know however, that the story continued and stood alone between the fog of History, in the midst of all the fascinating personalities and events of 1830's Paris. But now we feel that, in many ways, it is our duty to the lives of the characters we speak of to tell the truth or what remains of it._

_Jean Valjean led as we know and were given the opportunity to show, an extraordinary life. As did others who surrounded him: Marius, Cosette, their offspring and of course, Inspector Javert. But that life didn't end after the barricades and after the supposed death of the Inspector. Indeed, I say supposed death, and it may surprise the reader to know that the Inspector wasn't truly dead. And not only was he very much alive as everyone in the Paris of 1832 knew about it. For some reason, which will be uncovered lately, the previous account of his life and actions was false._

_Javert survived the Seine for in truth he never got there. Jean Valjean and his daughter didn't spend months without speaking. It is not our intention – and how presumptuous and arrogant it would be! – to tell the Real and Absolute Story of the Life of Valjean and Javert. That is a story that only themselves could tell us – and despite the kindness of those closer to them in helping us uncover the truth- I believe that their predisposition was to live the rest of their lives in peace as they thankfully did._

_We also beg our readers' forgiveness as well as the forgiveness of the characters we are about to speak of. Not always they will be given the justice they deserve, or treated properly and intimate details about their hearts and minds and bodies will be reveled. But I have chosen this path so as to not forget and mislead my readers as was previously done._

_Lastly, we are forever indebted to M. Marius Pontmercy and his son Louis. Without their invaluable help and openness of mind – their testimony was essential – and without the notes and writings left by our two protagonists, that they so kindly allowed us to see, this record could not have been set straight._

_And now, without further ado, we will address the story._

* * *

Valjean stripped his dirty clothes and went on to search for a clean set, briefly wondering why he bothered. His present state of mind was a confused and tired one. His actions were mechanical as if he wasn't focusing on buttoning the shirt and putting on trousers. His head was a turmoil of emotions: fear, sadness, relief. And above all, resignation.

Jean Valjean was a man resigned to his fate. In many ways, he always knew he would end up like this. He had started in prison and he would end in prison. For years he had tried to deny it, to avoid it. He escaped and fought it, sometimes fiercely. But now he realized the inevitable truth: He was a convict who had escaped and now he ought to return. Fairness or justice played no part in it. It was Fate.

His only coherent thought was directed to Cosette and he consoled himself with the notion that she would be happy, that he had saved her last chance for happiness. And perhaps one day she would forgive him. Yes, she would. He had taught her to forgive. He had taught her the importance of redemption. Right now she would be busy worrying about the boy she loved and the pain of his leaving would only affect her later. Somehow that made it worse. That she wouldn't be saddened at this departure or that she would barely notice.

Valjean scoffed at the thought which he found selfish and petty and was ashamed of himself. "Damn it all" He muttered under his breath.

Absentmindedly, he looked to the window. He had for a moment considered about inviting Javert in but the notion had seemed so absurd he dismissed it. Inviting to his house the man who was about to arrest him as though he was an old friend whom he hadn't seen in years was ridiculous and the Inspector would surely think the same.

When however, Valjean shot a look to the street and didn't see the familiar figure of the Inspector he reasoned that perhaps Javert had entered the building. He reached to open the window. It was dark, apart from the light coming from the street lamps, and a thick fog had fall upon Paris and it was increasingly hard to see what was in front of him. But one thing was certain: Javert was gone and so was the carriage. Had the Inspector left? Had he entered the building?

Valjean looked down and then to his right and left side. He frowned deeply as he tried to disclose any movement in the street. And then he saw it. Down the street, walking away, was the Inspector, only distinguishable because of his hat.

There are moments in life one simply cannot explain. Some actions have no logical or rational explanation. It is hard concept for some to accept, especially those who believe that Reason rules all, but the most important of actions aren't taken after careful considerations of all the pros and cons, but out of instinct, out of that little voice in the back of the skull that tells us to do something, to go right instead of left, to linger instead of leaving.

And this time Valjean's mind was filled with only one question. Why was he leaving? He hesitated for only a moment but it was enough. Putting on his coat again Valjean climbed down the stairs hurriedly, feeling, as he stepped outside, the chill air of night. Buttoning the coat, he chased after the Inspector.

With a few quick steps Valjean saw him again and soon he was turning right and right again in the direction of the river. Although he managed to keep his distance he thought it strange that the Inspector hadn't yet realized he was being followed. The streets were empty, there was no in sight apart from the two of them. Valjean almost tiptoed, knowing his steps could be heard against the cobblestones.

They reached Pont Au Change. It seemed to Valjean that Javert was simply wandering the streets without a definitive destination. He stopped at the middle of the bridge. Valjean cowered behind one of the benches. This was definitely getting absurd, he thought._ I'm chasing the policeman who used to chase me. I should be home thanking God and all his saints for being free._

_But will he not arrest me though? Why is he here? Why has he left? Had he given up? It was impossible. This was Javert. Javert never gave up. _The Inspector leaned a little against the parapet. Valjean observed him attentively.

After a few moments, the inspector straightened his shoulders and crossed the bridge. Valjean followed him though only half heartily this time. This was madness, he knew. If Javert had given up then he should take advantage of it and make sure he never saw the inspector again. Following him obviously wasn't the way to do this.

His curiosity was getting the best of him. And he could not tell why. But the idea that Javert had given up was absurd. It made no sense. And Valjean wanted to know why. Perhaps, what he really wanted was to make the inspector admit that he was not worth chasing. That he should not go to jail after all.

That he was a good man.

Not that Javert would ever say so. But the Inspector was the only one who remained thoroughly unconvinced. Valjean was not a vain man or a proud man. But he had changed. He had changed and some small part of him wanted the law that is, Javert, to acknowledge that.

_Of course he wouldn't. Even if he is letting me go,_ Valjean thought, _he would never admit it. God knows there is no one more stubborn than the inspector._

And so Valjean was about to give up and turn around when he saw the Inspector heading to the Place du Châtelet at the end of the bridge. He stood there and realized Javert had entered the police post. He froze. Was Javert bringing reinforcements to arrest him? But he had men with him before and had dismissed them. No, it could not be. Was he asking the Commissaire for an arrest warrant?

Either way, panic found its way into Valjean's mind. What would he do if Javert really wanted to take him? He had told the Inspector he would go with him but now, after having been granted the illusion of freedom, he wasn't so certain he had the strength to fulfill that promise. _How can I escape?_

But he was tired. Tired of running. Tired of carrying Marius through the sewers. Tired of knowing he was losing the only person he had ever loved.

Even if he wished to run away again he would not be able to. Closing his eyes, Valjean leaned against the wall behind him. He ought to go home now. Perhaps to say goodbye to Cosette. To assure her that the boy would take care of her. To give her money. He allowed this idea to flourish in his mind and almost didn't notice when Javert abandoned the police station.

And strangely enough, the Inspector didn't see him either. Valjean hid among the shadows but he had been too close to the Inspector and moved too suddenly and too abruptly. Even so, Javert didn't notice him. Indeed, the Inspector moved forward without even twitching as though Valjean had been wearing some sort of cloak of invisibility.

He stepped out of the shadows, bewildered. Javert was returning to the bridge and didn't look back. His posture was as it had always been: stiff, proud, upright. The difference, which Valjean didn't fail to notice, was his head: bowed, staring at the ground.

Something was terribly wrong. Valjean knew this as he had known in the day Javert burst in that hospital room all those years ago, in Montreuil-sur-mer.

He followed to find that once more, Javert had stopped at the centre of Pont Au Change. This time Valjean didn't bother hiding behind a bench. The inspector wasn't looking at him. Instead, he had leaned forward against the parapet, supporting his head with his hands. For a moment, the man looked almost peaceful and Valjean started to think that he might be wrong after all.

However, and once again that night, the inspector confounded him. He took off his hat. The movement was too abrupt. Valjean took a step forward, without thinking.

Javert as suddenly as he had taken the hat, pulled himself up, placing one foot on the parapet. Valjean, who was prepared to act at the smallest of threats, understood immediately what the inspector was about to do.

_He's going to jump._

Before Javert could finish what he had began, before he could stand on the parapet, Valjean shouted "No!"

Although his reaction was automatic for he clearly hadn't thought it through, it was enough to stop the Inspector. He snapped his head to him, alarmed. His expression changed when Valjean ran forward, bringing himself to the light of the lamp that stood close by.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?!" Valjean asked again. "Are you insane?" His tone was indignant, angry, as though Javert had been meaning to push someone else into the water and not himself.

Javert parted his lips. He was shocked. Valjean was certainly not the last person Javert expected to see before dying.

"What are you doing here Valjean?" He pulled away from the balcony and looked around searching for more people. "Did you follow me?!"

"That was not what I asked"

"So you're asking the questions now?" Javert said almost mockingly. "I thought that was my role"

"Were you going to jump?"

It annoyed the inspector that the insufferable man kept ignoring him "Go away, Valjean"

"Why were you going to jump?" He came closer meaning to grab Javert were he to have the same idea as before. "You would kill yourself with this tide"

The Inspector merely raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at him.

"You want to kill yourself"

Javert took a deep breath. Valjean had never seen him doing so. But then, Valjean had never thought the Inspector would attempt suicide. "You are tiresome" He finally said "And even more devoid of intelligence than I thought to follow the man who has the power to arrest you"

"You are mad" Valjean said decidedly "You let me go and now you want to end your life"

"That is your explanation? Madness?" The mocking tone had returned

"What more could there be?" Valjean muttered

Javert didn't answer this. He glanced at the river.

"But I suppose it's ironic and somehow fitting" He mused more to himself than to Valjean. "It is after all, because of you that I came to Paris in first place. It was because of you that I'm not dead right now and it is because of you that I'm faced with this conundrum that I cannot possibly solve."

"What conundrum?" Asked Valjean taking another step forward, "what are you talking about? What ails you so much that you think death is the only solution?"

"Destruction of everything I knew and believed. Evil is no longer evil, good is no longer good. Is that enough for you, Jean Valjean?"

Something in the way Javert said his name made Valjean pause and wonder. There was a moment of silence and understanding finally dawned upon him "Is this because of me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. It's not because of you. It's because of what you are"

Valjean's frown merely deepened "What am I? A convict?"

"A saint." Javert said "A saint who saves the policeman who would later arrest him. A saint who carries a half dead body through the sewers of Paris."

"All this is because you cannot take an act of kindness? That a former convict…"

"Kindness?" Javert rolled his eyes as though he was rebuking a child. "It was not kindness. We are only kind for those we care about. Tell me, would my death not suit you? Would you not be relieved? Finally free, finally able to walk without fear of being caught?" Javert's voice kept his annoyed tone reminding Valjean of a schoolmaster talking to a particularly stupid child.

"That is neither here nor there. I would not wish death upon anyone. Not even you. Everyone can be saved"

"No, not everyone. Not me. For I don't even want to. I thought I had made that abundantly clear in the alley."

Valjean shook his head. "Everyone wants to live. No one wants to die. Not really. It is part of human nature to grasp life"

Javert smirked "Really? Did you not long for death in Toulon? In those 19 years? When they increased your sentence?"

The effects were what he intended. Valjean's expression darkened. "Go away Valjean. You have tried my patience enough and even you can understand that I don't want your face to be the last thing I see in this life"

"I cannot let you die" Valjean said. "Every man has a chance of redemp…"

Javert pressed his lips together "Be gone man! Leave me alone. Why must you be here? I am not going to arrest you"

"You're…you're not?"

"I am planning on dying Valjean." He bit back "Where do you think I would arrange the time to go and arrest you?"

"But why?" He asked, exasperated

Javert lowered his head and didn't answer. Valjean pressed on. "No man should die such a death, Javert. Even you have a chance for salvation, for redemption"

"Damn you Valjean! You offered salvation to me a few hours ago and I refused. Shouldn't that have given you a clue? Be gone."

He was about to open his mouth to stubbornly refuse again. To go to such lengths as to say that he would jump after him though he fully realized that he didn't have enough strength to struggle with the Inspector in the middle of the Seine's tide. They would both die.

But before he could make this contribution to the argument, a somehow muffled scream echoed through the streets. If it hadn't been for the night and the absence of other noises they wouldn't have heard it.

Heads wiped to their left side. They didn't move for seconds, wondering if it had been real or simply a product of their imagination.

Javert glanced at him.

The cry was heard again. Valjean's first reaction was to move in its direction but he stopped, looking at Javert. Their eyes met for an instant. Javert's right hand was still grasping the white stone of the balcony. Their argument, so vocal before, had now became quite silent.

Finally the Inspector broke. His hand left the parapet and he and Valjean headed towards the end of the bridge, where the sound had come from.

They heard it again. It was a woman's, Javert was certain but she was quite far from them. Decidedly, he entered the labyrinthine streets of the quartiers of Paris, trying to locate her. Valjean followed him closely, keeping an eye on him. Javert more than ever, resembled a dog searching for a trail.

"She's running" Valjean muttered "I hear steps"

"Yes" He suddenly stopped and gestured for Valjean to do so as well "But not only one pair"

"She's being chased"

Javert focused and turned to his left, resuming his running. Damn it all, he thought, looking at the closed windows and silent buildings. There was no one in the street and no one would venture to even look outside. Paris was a city used to revolutions and revolts. People knew what they ought to do when one broke: close windows and doors and only leave when it was safe and never at night.

They were entering the XII arrondisement, he noted. In fact, they were on the border of his quartier. He quickened the step, no longer worried that Valjean kept following him.

"Help!" Came the terrified cry.

Adrenaline filled his system. He knew they were getting closer.

"No!"

She screamed one last time.

And then silence.

"Merde" He whispered. Javert knew these streets well and knew of the existence of one particular alley close by. His instinct led him there.

"Javert what…"

"Shut it Valjean" he said as they turned to the alley. At the end of the stone stairs there she was.

They approached it cautiously. Only two windows faced this area and they were both tightly shut.

Valjean went white "She's dead"

"Your powers of observation astound me" Javert murmured while kneeling. His eyes adjusting to the darkness, he saw her throat had been cut open. It was so fresh, blood had only just started to flow. Her eyes were still opened. It could have only happened a few seconds before they reached her.

The murderer had to be near.

Valjean realized the same thing when he diverted his shocked eyes from the body and a movement in the end of the alley caught his attention. The sound of steps, the tip of a coat or perhaps a gloved hand, something fleeting, something fast. So fast Valjean barely saw it. But it was enough. Launching forward, he ran with all the speed he could muster.

"What…Valjean what are you doing?" For several moments, Javert thought Valjean was escaping in fear of somehow being implicated in the crime that had just been committed.

Only when he stood he realized that Valjean was not running from something but towards something. "You idiot!" And went after him, muttering curses.

"AH!" It was Valjean who yelped in pain this time.

When Javert rounded the corner he found the former convict, crushed against the dirty wall. He didn't need much light to see the dark blood on his chest through the ripped clothes. "I'm fine. Go after him now!"

Javert took a moment to react. Too long. Tearing his eyes from Valjean, Javert raced forward in a desperate attempt to reach him. But the man, whoever he was, was faster and not as physically and mentally drained as Javert found himself. To make it worse, he not only knew the streets well but was also smart enough to take advantage of the dark.

Soon the inspector was running out of air and his legs were giving in. Furthermore, he knew that if even if he reached the man he could never engage him in a physical fight. He was unarmed whereas the man clearly had a knife or a dagger. He would surely end up like Valjean or the unfortunate wench.

With a roar of frustration, Javert stopped. He heard the steps of the murderer fade.

He had lost him.

Another set of curses left his lips.

Regaining a little breath, he returned to Valjean who was no longer leaning against a wall but had sank to the floor and was losing more and more blood. Javert kneeeled before him, touching his face, trying to see the wound. Apparently, he hadn't been stabbed but the skin of his chest was ripped in two. Probably the murderer had tried to stab him and Valjean deflected. "Well that's going to leave a nice scar" he whispered.

But it seemed deep, too deep for Valjean to survive the next hours without medical assistance. The woman was still dead in the alley. He ought to go and report the crime. It was his quartier, he even knew who was on service that night.

Javert looked again at Valjean knowing he couldn't leave him there. "The woman…the woman…"

The Inspector bit down his lip. "You truly are an idiot, Valjean"

* * *

**There can be little doubt that Hugo did intend to represent Javert as an embodiment of the authority, as a representation and even personification of the Law. I have also little doubt that he integrated Javert in Judicial Structures that existed (Officier de paix, Commissariat, Inspecteur de Police etc). However, Hugo did take considerable artistic license with Javert's career (especially its progression), with the posts/positions he occupies and with his functions (which seemed to be overstretched, meaning Javert seems to have more power and is doing more than he's supposed to).**

**This is still a subject I'm studying so this is all subjected to revision and there are questions that remain to be answered. But in any case, it is always necessary to remember that Hugo obviously intended Javert to have a ubiquitous function for in the end he was telling a story. And even though I do wish very much to keep my story as historical accurate as possible, the truth is that when a fiction writer is given to chose between fiction and absolute reality he would chose fiction.**

**Trying to keep a good degree of historical accuracy is very important to me when it comes to writing in an historical setting. So in this fic I will try to combine historical accuracy and fiction. I will follow a bit of Hugo's advice and try to fit him in structures that existed but at the same take some liberties. And later on in the story I will try to make him - and his position - more...historical accurate.**


	2. St Michael the Archangel

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who reviewed.  
**

**Also, I tried to correct the grammatical errors but they're bound to exist. I apologize once more and hope that you enjoy this chapter.  
**

* * *

If Javert had wondered how Valjean managed to carry Marius through the sewers he was now getting his answer. Only Valjean was not a lean student. He was a former convict, approximately 5.90 feet tall who could lift carts. To all fairness, Valjean had tried to make it easier for the Inspector, trying to walk by his own foot. He failed: the loss of blood made him weary, his breathing uneven, his steps uncertain. Without other option, Javert had wrapped the older man's arm around his own neck, making their way slowly through the streets.

The night had come to an end and the warm light of dawn had settled over Paris. The city was awakening. Javert prayed for someone to help them. He started to realize that he could not carry Valjean all the way to the Rue de l'homme armée on the other margin of the Seine. Valjean was wounded and weak but he was not faring much better.

The older man grew slower, his eyes closing. Javert pushed him against the wall. "Valjean, you can't faint now, come on"

He mumbled something intelligible.

"Damn you. If you hadn't meddled again in my affairs nothing of this would have happened" Javert muttered under his breath and searched the area around. There was a bakery nearby. Yes, he remembered his commissaire mentioning it. A man with a bakery would be awake at this hour. "Wait a second here"

Valjean however, gripped his hand desperately. Javert was sure he was not thinking straight. He was firm "I will return. Wait. And try not to fall"

Javert surveyed the street and in next block he did find what he was looking for, letting out an audible sigh of relief. The baker was in the process of opening his shop and better yet he had a small cart with him. The inspector approached him and searched for his badge. It occurred to him that he had resigned his position in the Police only a few hours ago, but the man had no way of knowing this little fact.

"Monsieur" He called causing the man to look in his direction. Although Javert looked as though he hadn't slept in months and some strands of his hair came loose, he knew he still retained the air of authority that made people's eyes widen a little. "I am Inspector Javert of Paris police. There is a wounded citizen back there and I need your assistance," he looked at the vehicle "and your cart"

After a brief moment of hesitation, the baker, more out of fear than actual concern for his fellow man, agreed to go with the inspector. Javert and him placed a half fainted Valjean in back of the cart. "You know where is the Rue d'l Homme armmé? It's the street of the Palais of the Guise."

Monsieur Marillac nodded. "I know, my mother in law…"

"Yes, good. If you hurry, I'll make sure you'll get paid" Javert diverted his attention to Valjean whose eyes were only semi opened now. In the alley he had tried to stop the bleeding by ripping parts of Valjean shirt and pressing them against the wound but it had been in vain. The fabric was too thin and was now completely soaked in blood. Valjean however, kept grasping it against his chest, unaware that it was no longer useful.

Javert almost pitied him. "Valjean" He muttered. "You can't faint. Look at me. Look at me." He ordered. To all fairness, the older man made an effort – a quite inhuman one – and focused his eyes on the blue gaze of the inspector. "You are losing a lot of blood. You cannot faint. You have to keep conscious otherwise you might not wake up. And I did not go through all this trouble, so you would die. Do you understand?"

If he had been able to, Valjean would have laughed. He tried, his lips twitched. "Yes"

"Don't talk. Focus on breathing. That's more pressing right now, although I know how much it pains you not to be able to babble all you want."

"You insult me even when I'm dying"

"We will see about that" Said the inspector, almost smugly. "And stop talking"

* * *

Taking Valjean to the floor where he lived was an even more hazardous task. He was almost unconscious by now, yet he was trying desperately to stop himself from falling into the darkness. Javert ignored his incoherent mumbles and forced Monsieur Marillac to do the same. They carried him; Marillac took his legs while wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess as Javert placed his hands under Valjean's arms to support his upper body. The noise they made while climbing up the stairs alerted some of the neighbors. As they were reaching the third floor, a girl suddenly appeared on the threshold and cried "Papa!"

Javert looked up. It was Cosette.

"Mademoiselle" He greeted urgently. She was staring at her father's body, horror all over face. The blood, he realized, she saw the blood. "He's alive. But I need to put him to bed."

Finally, she snapped. "Yes! Yes, come with me!"

They carried him to what obviously was Valjean's bedroom and placed him on the bed with all the care they could muster. Cosette took her father's hand "Papa, papa? Can you hear me?" She looked up desperately at the inspector.

Valjean mumbled her name. Javert pulled her away from him "I am inspector Javert of the Paris Police. Your father is gravely injured. I need you to pay attention to me" He was stern, authoritarian and there was a hint of fear in Cosette's eyes. He allowed her moment to breathe until she nodded

"I will do everything"

"Do you know where is the Église de Saint Paul-Saint Loius?"

"Yes…it's close"

"You must go there. In the building in front of the Church lives a doctor. His name is Julian Spittler. He's a former army doctor and he is used to treat this kind of injuries." Javert threw a look at Monsieur Marillac "This man helped me. Please, see that he's suitably paid and I'm certain he will take you there"

Cosette went on to her father's desk and retrieved a generous bunch of money. Javert saw Marillac's eyes widening for the second time. This was certainly more than the man would earn in a month of work. Before she handed it to him, however, she said "Will you take me to the street the Inspector mentioned?"

He nodded too fervently. Javert said "Give him my name. He knows who I am. And tell him that the patient has a wound across his chest that needs sewing."

Cosette put on her coat and called for the elderly woman who had opened the door. "I'm going for the doctor. You must aid the inspector in everything he asks" She pressed their hands together and hurried off. Toussaint faced Javert. She was trembling, threatening to burst into tears.

When he spoke, he made an effort to soften his voice "Could you fetch water…and cloths? Fresh, clean cloths."

"Yes…" She whispered, afraid, looking worriedly at her master. "Will…will Monsieur Fauchelevent…will he…"

"The water and the cloths, please" He was firmer this time and she hurried off, leaving him alone with Valjean. Although he felt curious about his surroundings – he was in Jean Valjean's bedroom after all – there were more pressing matters. Javert took off his greatcoat and approached Valjean. He was barely awake by now, his eyes closed.

Only his moving lips denounced his conscious state. Javert sighed deeply and placed a hand on the man's forehead. "My…my daughter" He spluttered. "Cosette…I…" Talking was a trial, obviously. "I must tell her…tell her…the boy…the boy…"

"Not now, Valjean" Javert answered hastily and moved to rip the rest of Valjean's bloodied shirt from his torso, throwing its pieces to the corner of the room. Toussaint brought him what he had asked and set it on the bedside table.

Wetting the cloth in the water, he started to clean the wound, knowing this would make the doctor's job easier when he arrived. Blood continued to flow, however. The inspector wrapped one of the towels around Valjean's chest, watching the white, immaculate fabric grow red and soaked. Only then did Javert seem to realize that he had not escaped: his hands were also bloodied. With Valjean's blood. A convict's blood. A criminal's blood. He stared at it for a long, interminable minute.

"Javert" He whispered. "Where is my daughter?"

"She went for the doctor. Didn't you hear me?" He replied, annoyed, angrily plunging his hands into the bowl of water with such speed that it almost spilled. "I told you not to talk." For the hundredth time in mere three hours, the Inspector cursed the wounded man.

Spittler was an old army doctor but still one of the best in his profession. He had a strong sense of duty, Javert told himself, he would hurry. A thought crossed his head. Valjean had saved his life. Was he repaying him? He diverted his eyes from the older man. _No. I am a policeman. I am doing my duty. I am not repaying Valjean._ He did not know why the thought bothered him so much, but it did and Javert was not in the habit of thinking about what upset him. He had done that enough for an evening.

It was the first time since he had left the bridge that he thought about what had taken him there in the first place. Before he was so abruptly interrupted, both by Valjean and then by the cry of the woman. He felt his internal turmoil slowly returning, as did the knot in his chest and brain. The feelings of despair and hopelessness that he had seldom felt in his life, but that had grown so intense in the last hours, were threatening to burst again.

Thankfully, and once again, events around him pulled him from his thoughts. Spittler had arrived. Their urgent steps were heard against the floor. When they burst in, Javert looked first at Cosette and then at the older man. The girl was clearly still terrified, but trying to keep control over her wits and the doctor turned to Valjean, examined him with a falcon eye, and put his bag on the table "I see you got yourself in trouble again, inspector"

"Not me, Monsieur l'docteur. I assure you that this time I am completely blameless"

Spittler smirked. "Mademoiselle, perhaps you should wait outside. The inspector and I can manage on our own."

She hesitated. "We will call you if we need assistance" Spittler reassured her.

Cosette and Toussaint closed the door. Javert thanked the Heavens for that. The situation was stressful enough without the women moaning as though Valjean was dying. The doctor examined the wound, carefully, "you did a good job cleaning it. Did you stop the bleeding?"

"I tried"

He leaned forward. "Monsieur Fauchelevent can you hear me? I'm Julian Spittler, I'm a doctor. You are injured. You have a large cut in your chest. It needs to be sewed. It may be painful but we will have to do it."

Valjean nodded. "Yes" He breathed "I can take pain"

"Javert will you help?"

The Inspector muttered something. Spittler didn't bother to decipher it. He proceeded to use an alcohol solution to clean his hands and did the same with his instruments. Then, slowly, with an extraordinary care for a doctor used to battlefields, he took off the fabric Javert had wrapped around Valjean's chest. It had managed to stop the flowing of the blood but he was still bleeding. The doctor spilled ioden solution in a smaller tissue and, as Javert had done, he cleaned the cut again.

Javert leaned against the window, observing the scene silently. When Spittler started to sew the skin together, Valjean moaned in pain. "Take a rag and immerse it in cool water. Press it against his forehead."

He hesitated but eventually obliged. The small, soft moans of pain that even in the haze that was his mind Valjean tried to stifle, continued. But his expression relaxed when the rag made contact with his skin. Spittler's hands moved expertly with the needle, across Valjean's chest. He was used to do this, he had done it countless times before. Javert stared at his movements, half fascinated, half weary.

Valjean lost conscience a couple of times, but never for long periods. He had refused to give in, like Javert had ordered. _You fool_, thought the Inspector. The former convict gripped his forearm. How Valjean managed to keep so much of his strength after all his ordeals, never ceased to amaze the inspector. "Thank you" Valjean whispered. But it wasn't to the doctor. It was to him.

"It's your own fault" Javert answered. Spittler shot him a disapproving look.

Valjean seemed to have caught it. "He always tells the truth, docteur."

Spittler smiled a little as he finished his work. "There it is. You were very brave, Monsieur Fauchelevent." He stood up. "It was a nasty one. I don't even want to know how you got it. But even so, I would strongly advise you to refrain from similar adventures in the near future"

Valjean looked at Javert again. The inspector rolled his eyes.

Spittler cleaned his hands and opened the door. Cosette and the old lady were waiting in the hallway and jumped to their feet when they saw him. He told them to come in. "I believe your father is going to recover. But he must not move for at least two weeks. I will be checking on him every three days. If he moves around there is a real danger the wound will reopen. If it happens, he will lose even more blood. It cannot happen, do you understand mademoiselle?"

"He will not move, Monsieur. I promise"

He stepped away to let her reach her father. She knelled by the bed and took his hand. Valjean, making herculean efforts not to fall asleep, smiled. "You're here"

"You must not do this again" She rebuked softly. "You've disappeared suddenly and you return bearing such injuries and I…"

"I must tell you about the boy" He interrupted. "Marius" She stopped her rant. "He was at the barricades. But I know that he is...that is, I heard that he made it out alive... He was…wounded but alive. He will recover, I'm certain." He lowered his voice here "And he will come for you"

Cosette's lips broke into a huge smile and the shadow that had haunted her face vanished. Javert, once more observing the whole exchange, knew it could only be the silly smile of a girl in love. "If that is so, if he really was there…I am so, so very happy he is alive. As I am happy that you, papa, are also well and with me. And Marius will soon be." She squeezed his hand before planting a kiss on it. "I have everything I ever wanted"

Valjean, however, did not smile. His expression grew only sadder, wearier.

Toussaint had lured the doctor to the kitchen with the promise of a hot cup of tea and Javert had stayed witnessing a scene so foreign to him that he felt completely out of place, growing more and more uncomfortable. He retrieved his coat. "You are taken care of. I have done my duty and I will take my leave"

A flash of fear – that did not go unnoticed to Cosette – crossed her father's eyes. "Wait." He said. "Your shirt is filled with blood. You can't go about in the street wearing that. Cosette, please. A few weeks ago Toussaint bought some shirts but they were too large for me. I told her to give them to charity. See if she's done it already. If she hasn't, kindly bring one to the inspector"

Cosette was not sure whether her father really wanted a clean shirt or if he merely wanted to speak with the inspector alone. She obeyed nonetheless, not before glancing at Javert. He was a strange man. He appeared unkind and cold but still he had brought her father home and helped the doctor. And her father seemed to know this man. But from where? She had never seen him before, although there was something oddly familiar about him, his face, the way he carried himself.

"Where are you going?" Valjean asked once Cosette left.

"That's none of your business." Javert replied haughtily, "you have already caused enough trouble"

"Promise me you will not return to that bridge"

Javert pressed his lips together in a sign of annoyance. "What is it to you? Why do you have this…need to save the world? You're not a saint. You're not a priest. Maybe you impose that on yourself but you can only help people who want to be helped. Personally, I want you to leave me alone"

Valjean lowered his gaze and snorted, "I'm afraid, Javert that this time I'm being rather selfish. I simply cannot have your death on my conscience. Or anyone's death."

The inspector looked at him with poorly disguised incredulity. "You are impossible!" He exploded in a strange mixture of anger and frustration. "Since when this is about you?"

Valjean made an effort to straighten his body on the bed. He failed. "Since you clearly told me that I'm the cause. If I'm the cause of someone's pain, of someone's misery, a cause that led one to try to kill oneself…I must…do something."

"It's not your responsibility! You meddled! You got involved! I never asked…"

"But it is still my responsibility! You wanted to kill yourself because of me! How is that not my responsibility?"

Javert advanced towards him like a lion cornering its prey. "I am not a little girl to be saved from the hands of the evil innkeeper. I am not your next charity case, Valjean" He whispered dangerously. "Don't you dare to turn me into something like that"

"Javert, please"

But the inspector paid no heed. Javert straightened his greatcoat and his collar and, without another look at Valjean, he stormed out. "Inspector!" Cried Cosette, "I have your shirt."

"It's not my shirt, mademoiselle" and with this he fastened the buttons of the coat, concealing his bloodied shirt and vest. He made a move to go past her but the girl boldly wrapped her hand around his arm. He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Please, wouldn't you like a cup of tea? Something warm? You must be exhausted as well. And I would like to thank you for having helped my father. I believe you saved his life, Monsieur"

Javert stared blankly at her hand until she seemed to realize her mistake. Fearing for a moment that he would snap at her, Cosette took a step back. "I did only my duty, mademoiselle. But now I must go"

His tone was calmer now, but his face betrayed his distress, his anger, his frustration. She stepped away to let him pass. Javert left the apartment hurriedly, almost jumping down the stairs. When he reached the street, he leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. Valjean's house was suffocating.

He tried to collect his thoughts. What would he do now? His first instinct was to finish what he had started hours ago. The problem could not be solved, he was an officer of law, he had to arrest Valjean but Valjean was good, Valjean was kind, how, how on Earth could he be so?

His head was spinning again. Valjean was good, Valjean was a convict, Valjean was righteous, Valjean was a thief, Valjean tried to catch that man…

The man.

The man whom he had chased. The man who had escaped him.

The man who had killed the woman.

Javert frowned deeply as his thoughts focused on the woman. Her body would have been found by now. He should report to his Commissaire. The crime had happened within his quartier, it was his jurisdiction. This thought awakened something inside him: there was something oddly familiar about that scene, he thought with that fleeting sensation of déjà vu. The woman was dead; a man had killed her. The man had escaped - escaped him. Javert hesitated for a moment.

Finally, he turned left in the direction of Pont au Change.


	3. Samson and Delilah

Javert walked decidedly along the right bank of the Seine. For a moment all his appearance was that of a man lost in a big city. But when he raised his head he saw Pont au Change and Notre Dame behind it and recognition lightened his eyes. It was a beautiful day in June: Summer had finally reached Paris. He usually did not linger on such thoughts but this time it was inevitable. His steps became slower and calmer, very different from the pace of the man who had left Rue d'l Homme armé. Even so, he reached Place du Chatelet before 8:00 and entered the police station.

Thankfully it was the same clerk from night before. He stood up numbly when he saw him. At 3 francs a week the man had every right to look unhappy. "I was here last night" Javert said, looking at the desk. "Has the mail been dispatched to the prefecture yet?"

"No, Monsieur"

"I want my letter back"

He hesitated. Javert raised a persuasive eyebrow. Finally, the clerk searched and retrieved a small envelope from a pile of reports and other correspondence. Javert took it and tipped his hat. "Have a good day" he offered.

Once more, he crossed Pont au change. The bridge wasn't as empty as it had been the night before. The working mothers, who could not afford to stay home even when there was a revolution, paddedalong hurriedly dragging their sleepy children. Javert stopped at the centre, at the exact same spot of the night before and stared at his resignation letter, at Gisquet's name in his precise, stern handwriting. He had many options. He could throw himself again. No one would stop him this time. He could throw the letter. He was still a policeman, an inspector to the Commissariat of quartier des Jardin du roi, commonly known as quartier San Marceau. That was what he was. The letter hadn't been delivered. No one knew. Not even Valjean knew.

Eventually, he did neither. Javert folded the envelope and placed it inside his pocket. It seemed to him that the coat grew 100 pounds heavier.

* * *

His flat was close to Rue du fer. It was a small building with only four apartments in a quiet, discreet street. The main occupant was Madame Lemonard, an elderly woman, who cleaned and looked after the building. She idolized Javert because in her mind he was the only defense against robbers, thieves and others malefactors. BelowJavert lived three students – although the inspector wondered how three boys could live in such a small space – and he was quite sure that their relations were not very chaste. And finally, there was a young woman, Adelaide and her son. Her husband had died a few years ago and she worked in a factory during the day leaving the boy in the care of Madame Lemonard.

All in all, it was a perfect place. His apartment was small but it was what he could pay and no one meddled in his life for they were either too afraid of him or too afraid he would leave.

Javert resisted the urge to fall into bed and sleep for four days in a row. Instead, he removed his clothes and washed himself. In less than an hour he looked presentable again, with a clean shirt and a clean vest.

His Commissariat was in Rue de Pontoise which was still a good walking distance from his house. When he stepped in, his Commissaire, Monsieur Béranger widened his eyes and exclaimed almost merrily, "Javert!" and approached him "I wasn't expecting you today…I thought Gisquet had required your presence elsewhere. And you were at the barricades weren't you? Are you alright?"

"I finished my duties with the Prefect. I'm reporting to you, sir" he closed the door behind them, "and I know that there was a woman killed in an alley nearby last night"

Béranger spurned around to look at him. The corner of his lips twitched. "So it is true that you know everything"

Javert sat down, not bothering to wait for an invitation "It was me who found the body"

"What? How so?"

"I was crossing Pont au Change. I met an old acquaintance who was…" he hesitated a little here but pressed on and the hesitation went unnoticed "about to go into the police station in Place du Châtelet to inquire about was happening at the barricades. His daughter's sweetheart was there and he was worried. Since I had been involved in the operations, I told him that the National Guard had broken in the barricades and the revolt had come to an end. While we were having this conversation we heard a scream. We both followed it and eventually found the woman. Dead. My friend chased after the man who did it but was stabbed in the process. I thought that I had to aid him first otherwise he and the girl would share a similar fate"

Béranger sat on his chair. "You did well. And furthermore, there really isn't much of a mystery here. She's a prostitute. She was either killed by a client or by an… unpleasant associate."

Javert frowned, leaning forward. "Do we know her name?"

"We know nothing. She carried no identification. I told Cluzet that he ought to look in the area for more girls and bring them here to see if they can recognize her."

"I would like to see the body. It is still here isn't it?"

He nodded and led him there. Due to lack of space, her body had been placed in a closet that was obviously not big enough. They couldn't even close the door properly and the putrid smell had starting to spread. Béranger pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his nose while Javert examined her with the utmost attention. It hadn't been so evident last night but now he could clearly see that she was a prostitute: her clothes, her hair, her poorly applied make up. He had seen it all before countless times. "A doctor came this morning" added Béranger as though guessing his thoughts.

The ugly cut that had opened her throat was grotesque: with the blood dried and her eyes still opened she looked like a doll broken by some especially cruel boys.

When they turned away from the body, Javert said "I would like to look more deeply into this."

Béranger frowned. "It's only a whore, Javert. Of course we have to know who did it but it's hardly a priority"

"Even so" he insisted. "I believe there is more to this. It's not the first time"

Béranger bit down his lip and then sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. As long as it doesn't disrupt your other duties. For instance, Monsieur Talbot, the lawyer, complained that his fiacre was stolen. You and the sous-brigadier will have to look into that"

"I will."

"So please, Javert. Don't waste your time on dead prostitutes. This is not first, unfortunately. And it won't be the last"

"Cluzet" He said to the sous-brigadier when he left his boss's office.

"Good morning"

"I need your help." And pulled him to a corner of the police-station, away from the earshot of the sergeants de villes. "You know about the murder?"

"Yes, it was me who brought the body in"

"This was not the first one" Javert said quietly. "A few months ago…there was a similar case. A similar woman killed in a very similar manner"

Cluzet was frowning deeply, searching his mind for that recollection. Javert didn't have the time or the patience to wait. "It has to be in the records. The reports we sent to the Prefecture, we keep copies of them. It has to be there."

Cluzet nodded "Yes, it has to be"

"Can you search for them? And send one of your sergeants de villes to look for a…colleague of the girl?"

"I've done that already. I sent Michel."

"I have to go see the Officier de paix on the Commissariat of Saint Jacques." Javert informed. Cluzet didn't inquire after his motives. He knew he wouldn't get any answer. "Can you do that in the meanwhile?"

"I will see what I can do. But don't take long. I could swear Béranger's had two heart attacks this morning because of the lawyer who lost his fiacre"

Javert smirked.

* * *

When Javert was transferred to Paris he was placed under the service of Philippe Gilbert an officier de paix, back when they had a roving commission and were not attached to a specific arrondissement. After 1828, Javert started to work for Commissaire Béranger but kept a close association with Gilbert who, two years afterwards, was also assigned to the XII arrondissement. Through him the Inspector could keep an eye on everything that happened in that part of the city. Furthermore, Gilbert was likely the only person in the Paris Police who knew him moderately well.

He was at least the only one who was comfortable enough to tell him as soon as he saw him coming in: "By God man, you look as though you haven't slept in three days!" Javert smiled a little. "You haven't slept in three days, have you?"

"Two and a half" he said and shook his hand. "I need to talk to you"

"The Commissaire is not here." Gilbert answered and led him to his office, unceremoniously sitting in the Commissaire's chair. "So, you need my help"

"Yes" Javert answered, placing his hands on the back of the chair. This was why he and Philippe got along so well. Neither of them wasted time with ridiculous pleasantries. "A prostitute was murdered in my quartier. Her throat was cut open with a knife or a dagger"

Gilbert stared. "Do you know who did it?"

"No, not yet. But I know it's not the first time. It has happened before"

"Of course it happened before. Prostitutes are killed all the time"

"Yes, but not in this fashion" Javert said decidedly, almost eagerly. "Not like this. There's not enough…violence"

"Wasn't her throat cut in half?" Gilbert inquired rhetorically. "Isn't that violent enough for you?"

Javert rolled his eyes. "I don't like when you do that, sir"

"Nice of you to add the "sir" in the end," he smiled and said after a second, "you want to know if there were more women killed in that manner?"

He nodded. "You and your men walk around the arrondissement. And you have a better access to the records and to the Prefecture"

Philippe was in silence for a long moment, his eyes surveying Javert's own gaze and then his tall figure. He was searching, looking, asking. But as always, he encountered no answers. Finally, he gave a deep sigh. "I will find something for you. You are looking for a prostitute stabbed in the throat?"

"Yes. No other apparent signs of violence"

Gilbert stood up. "I will send you a note as soon as I discover something"

"Thank you, sir"

* * *

When he returned to his police-station, Javert found the not so uncommon scene of Cluzet arguing with two women who distinctively looked like prostitutes. Javert raised his eyebrows. Cluzet gave a sigh of relief when he saw him. "Thank God!" And gestured to them, "they are trying to convince me that they don't know who the girl is!"

Javert took off his hat and unbuttoned two buttons of his greatcoat. "Are you certain you don't know?" He approached them, fixing his unyielding gaze on them. "This is very serious. There is a woman dead. And I think it's not the first. You can be the next"

Cluzet's eyes widened, alarmed with the abrupt approach. He tried to step in but Javert raised his hand. "Do you understand what's at stake here?"

He took another step towards them knowing it made him even more intimidating. They cowered in fear. "Do you understand?" Javert asked again, more forcefully.

They nodded. "And so?" They looked at each other.

"We know nothing, sir" One of them whispered, the one on the left.

"We don't know who she is. We never seen 'er"

Cluzet rolled his eyes. "You're lying!"

Javert however, stood motionless staring at the both of them. Eventually he turned to Cluzet, "Do you have their names?"

"Yes." He answered

"Then you can go"

"What?" Cluzet tried to interfere again but Javert silenced him with his gaze. They hurried off, fearing the Inspector would change his mind. "Why did you let them go?! We could have extracted the information from them!"

"Could we?" Javert almost snorted. "I practically told them that they would die if they didn't and still they refused to tell the truth"

"But they know who she is" Cluzet replied.

"Of course they know. But they're scared. And they are more afraid of whoever did that than of us. We would get nothing from them"

"So you think they know who the murderer is?!" The high pitch returned to Cluzet's voice. "And you let them go?!"

Javert almost sighed as he rubbed his temples. "Calm down." He muttered mildly annoyed. "I don't think so. I believe it's about the girl. They know who she is"

Cluzet waited for a moment before speaking, "the lawyer's fiacre. We have to take care of that"

Javert nodded but suddenly stopped when walking to the door as though he had just remembered something. "Before that…you know how to draw don't you? I've seen you doodling on paper"

"Yes," he diverted his eyes, embarrassed "but I don't do that when I'm working, I..."

"I'm not your boss you don't owe me your stuttering" He said. "Could you draw her face?" Cluzet looked confused for a moment, "the woman's face. She will have to be taken eventually, she can't stay here. And if no one indentifies her in the next few days we won't be able to know who she is. With a portrait of her we could keep a record, we could show it around even after she's buried"

"Oh, I see. That's a very good idea"

"I know" Javert grumbled, "if you do it now while Béranger is having lunch we can go talk with the lawyer afterwards"

* * *

At the end of the week, Javert felt something akin to triumph as he realized that he had successfully avoided thinking about Valjean. In those following days, after having slept for ten hours in a row, the inspector barely left his police station. He was the first to arrive in the morning and one of the last to leave. Even the lawyer's fiacre became an interesting case for him (as it turned out, it had been stolen by Monsieur Talbot's mistress as revenge because the man had dared to put an end to their liaison). But it was the prostitute's death that intrigued him the most.

Cluzet and him spent hours looking into old reports dating from October/November of the previous year. He was still waiting for news from Gilbert. It was, in short, easier than he expected. He didn't have time to think about Valjean. He could almost pretend that he didn't exist, that nothing had happened, that the old man hadn't saved his life, that he hadn't witnessed him saving the boy's life. That he hadn't helped Valjean afterwards.

But fate was not that kind to our inspector and if it had been we would have no tale to tell. Javert and Cluzet did find what they were looking for: In December of 1831, a "street worker" had been found murdered in the exact same fashion: a clean cut across the throat. She had been identified on the spot by one of her girlfriends and hadn't even been brought in. In the end of the short report it was simply said that given the lack of evidences it had not been possible to find even a suspect. The crime had happened during the night, no one had seen or heard a thing.

"No one ever sees anything in this bloody neighborhood," Javert complained, stretching his back.

"Respectful people don't go out at night." commented Cluzet

"We go out at night" Javert replied, his eyes scanning the report once more. "She was found near the halle aux vins"

"Sir" said another voice. They both looked up. There was a sergent de ville holding a package. "We have just received this. To Inspector Javert"

He took it and opened it eagerly as a boy on Christmas morning. He knew it was from Gilbert. It was an official report not unlike the one he had been reading. Above it there was a small note in Philippe's handwriting: "You owe me"

"What is that girl's name?" he asked Cluzet pointing to what they had been previously reading

"Camille…her name is Camille Lemâitre."

"This one's called Désirée" he said, flicking his eyes through the files Gilbert had sent him.

"How appropriate" Cluzet returned but Javert merely rolled his eyes.

"She died in April. Her body was found close to the Hôpital du Midi…and there's even an address. At least these were thorough" Javert commented with sarcasm and he knew Cluzet would promptly defend the honour of their police station but he failed to hear him; he had lost himself in the location of the address. It was fairly close to Valjean's first house in Paris, the Masure Gorbeau and that brought all sorts of unpleasant memories.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself

"What?" Cluzet stopped his diatribe.

"Nothing," the inspector replied hastily.

They were in silence for a long moment. Cluzet returned his attention back to the report, peering occasionally at the papers Javert was holding. "Have you noticed it, already?" the Inspector asked as a professor would ask an apprentice.

"There's nothing that connects these three women"

"We don't know about that. We know nothing about the last one"

"So what have I missed?"

Javert supported his body against the desk and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "The last woman, the one we found, carried no money. Béranger assumed it had been stolen. But these two were found with their money. Camille Lemâitre carried eight francs and Desirée had five. It wasn't taken from them"

"He doesn't kill for money"

"He kills for nothing apparently. They are not robbed, they are not raped, they are not even beaten. I have been in Paris for ten years. I have seen this kind of women dead. It is never like this."

Cluzet took a deep breath and looked at the clock that hung on the wall. It was late, too late and he was obviously thinking about his wife and son and a warm meal. "Aren't we over thinking this, Javert? Perhaps Béranger is right. They are just…whores. It is unfortunate but…it's a risky job, they know it"

Javert stepped away from the desk, taking the reports with him. "The fact of the matter is that in the last six months, three women were killed in the exact same manner, clearly by the same person. This man is dangerous. Today it is a whore alright…what about tomorrow?"

The other man couldn't argue with that. But he stood up nonetheless and went for his coat and hat. "Tomorrow is another day. I'm going home. And so should you, Inspector"

Javert nodded absentmindedly. When Cluzet closed the door, he snorted. "There are still several hours left until the end," and with this he left.

* * *

Cosette soon discovered that her father was the most stubborn of patients. Keeping him in bed was close to impossible: he fidgeted and insisted he was perfectly well, that the doctor had overreacted, that he could stand and walk and he didn't need any help to eat. That he had rested enough and that three weeks were a gross exaggeration, that it was summer and he missed his strolls.

She ignored his complaints, dismissing them with a smile and amused rolling eyes. She brought him his meals and kept him company. But there were questions Cosette was burning to ask: how was he wounded in the first place? How did he know about Marius's condition? Who had told him? Who was the Inspector and how had she never seen him before? Her father never had any friends. He was always amiable but mistrustful; he never allowed people to inquire after his life. It was more than a strong sense of privacy that befits every man. As far as she knew he had never even left the Convent in the years they lived there.

One night, a week after the incident, she gathered enough courage to question him. She brought him dinner and sat next to him, watching him eat. "Papa" she started softly, "do you think I could write to Monsieur Marius…? To see how he is?"

For only a second, Valjean's hand stopped moving. His whole body went rigid. He felt both cold and hot at the same time. But still he said with the same tone as before, "of course. I should have thought of that before"

Cosette frowned a little. "I wouldn't do anything you don't approve"

It crossed Valjean's mind that she already had but Cosette didn't deserve to hear that. And he didn't have the right to say it as well. "If he is a good boy…which I'm certain he is…and if he makes you smile like that" Valjean said, making her giggle, "I could never disapprove"

They were no longer talking about the note she would send him.

Valjean sighed, having lost his appetite. Her next question cornered him but he knew he had no means of escaping this time: "How did you know he had been at the barricades…and survived?"

"There was a letter. I…I think I lost it in the meanwhile. A boy came here to deliver it_" A boy who died,_ Valjean thought but didn't reveal it, "It was from Monsieur Marius. It was a simple letter. He said he was at the barricades and that he would soon be dead"

Cosette stared. For an agonizing second, he feared she would be angry at the violation of her privacy but Cosette simply stated: "but he did not"

Valjean hesitated for the longest of minutes. It was inevitable, he realized. He had to lie to her.

"I went to the police station in search for news. I wanted to know if it was really true. I wanted to know what was happening in the barricades so I could give you the news. And in the meanwhile I found Inspector Javert who informed me that he had been there…he told me that a Monsieur Marius Pontmercy had survived…one of the only."

Valjean was painfully aware that he was not only making everything up but he was also involving Javert in a story the Inspector would never corroborate.

Cosette, however, didn't seem inclined to quibble. "So this means we're not going to England anymore?"

"No. We are not."

"Why…"

"Please, Cosette"

There it was: her father had closed himself again inside that bubble of secrecy he lived in. "Can you tell me at least how you ended up wounded that night?"

"I was attacked. Javert and I were on Pont Au Change when we heard a scream. We followed it and there was a woman dead. I tried to chase the murderer but he stabbed me across the chest"

Cosette's eyes widened in shock, "Papa!" she rebuked, "what were you thinking? You could have died!"

"I didn't have time to consider that." But he reached and took her hand. "I am well, Cosette" he muttered, clearly lying.

"And the Inspector?" she added in an afterthought. "He helped you…and you seem to know each other well"

Valjean felt like laughing at the irony. "We…have come a long way. But we don't see each other much. He's not my friend," he uttered lamely; "we are not friends. He's simply an acquaintance"

Cosette slowly nodded. "He looked very distressed when he left"

Valjean diverted his gaze to the window in front of the bed. "Yes." He murmured more to himself than to her "he did, didn't he?"


	4. Three major prophets

The halle aux vins was a wine market on the left bank close to the Seine. Created by Mazarin in the second half of the 17th century, the site quickly became one of the most famous, and therefore crowed, in the city. In the last years, since the consumption of wine had been increasing it was decided to expand the market and the cellars but the works were still in progress which caused the place to be filled with workers, mud, dirt and chaos. As a direct consequence, at night it was the customary spot of the prostitutes of the district. It could be said, for we are nothing but perceptive of the small ironies of life, that the place joined the two favourite pleasures of Parisian men.

Inspector Javert was perfectly aware of this although he was not a man to enjoy either of these pleasures. After he left the station that night, with some of his notes and the sketch Cluzet had drawn, he didn't head home. In truth, he could hardly bear to be in his apartment. It was empty and warm and it made him think. For the last few weeks, since that mythic 7th of June, the only part of his flat that saw him was his bed. It didn't matter, he thought. None of it mattered.

_Except what I'm doing now,_ he muttered to himself when he reached the halles aux vins and travelled carefully through the surroundings streets. He stopped once or twice asking for a name. When the first woman had died, Cluzet had had the presence of mind of writing down the name of the friend who had identified her body. It was a slim chance, he knew. These women never stayed in one place for a long time. He suddenly remembered Fantine and his thoughts stubbornly turned to Valjean and once again, even more willfully, he pushed the thought away.

He found her eventually: she was called Celeste and was warming her hands near an improvised fire. There were regulations against lighting that sort of thing but he chose to ignore it this time. He needed her attention, and not a group of angry women shouting at him. "I need a word with you" Javert said harshly, staring fixedly at the others hoping it would make them go away.

"You're no client," she spat, her eyes roaming over his figure as though she was going to bite him.

"I'm glad that's obvious. I am an inspector of the Paris police"

Their tenseness became palpable in the air around him. Javert smirked.

"What d'you want?"

He kept staring at the other occupants of the corner until they finally stepped away. "Celeste…that's your name isn't it?" Javert didn't wait for the confirmation. "I want to ask you about your friend who was killed a few months ago, Camille Lemâitre."

"A few months?" She snorted. "It was almost a fuckin' year ago!"

"It was in December," he replied calmly. "But that's not the point"

"Of course it is the point! I knew the police was slow…" She chuckled, baring her toothless mouth. Like Fantine, he thought for the second time that night and grew annoyed. "You don't even care d'you? She died all that time ago and you're asking questions now? If I die tonight will you be here in six months?"

Javert took a step towards her, "Listen here, if you don't want to die tonight or in the next nights you will tell me what I want to know."

Celeste still eyed him suspiciously, but it was too late by now, and he was scaring off clients. The longer he stayed the slimmer were her chances of bringing home some money. "What d'you want to know?"

"What can you tell me about her?"

"What?"

Javert ignored her. "Where did she come from? How old was she? Did she have any family? Did she live with any man? Where is her house?"

"It doesn't matter where her house was. After she died, they cleared it all out and threw her stuff into the trash. I wasn't even able to get her dresses. They were fine dresses, she made them herself"

"What about the rest?"

She rubbed her hands together. It wasn't even that cold he noted but she was wearing a simple old, yellow, extremely ugly dress that barely covered her chest. He supposed that was the point. "She was 29. I think she came from the north…a village near Rouen…I dunno, somewhere like that. Her parents died in an fire or something and she came to Paris. You can guess the rest…"

"She lived alone?"

"Think so," then sighed "Ya know, we weren't really that good friends. I saw her here, around here. She was a pretty thing. I ate at her hovel a couple of times, no more than that"

"What happened in the night of the murder?"

She paled and lowered her head. "I was in this same spot. We heard a scream but ya know, we hear a lot of screams…" he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She continued, happy that she had managed to make him uncomfortable. "After a while I decided to go home, I mean, it was December and it was cold and snowing and no one would come anyway, so at least I d'be warm. That was when I found the body. I screamed a lot then and they were not screams of pleasure…not that there are many opportunities for me to scream like that, let me tell you…"

"You really don't have to tell me" Javert replied, "so you found the body. You screamed. And then?"

"Ya' know how people are. Suddenly there was a crowd around 'er and the girls started sobbing and shrieking, all that nonsense. Someone called the cops and that was it. I told one of you who she was and they took her body. That's the end of it"

"There's nothing more? You can't tell me anything more about her? How was she?"

"How was she?" Celeste repeated. "She was a whore, man!" She cried as though that would explain everything. Javert, however, was waiting. "She used to be pretty but of course that didn't last for long .That's the first to go. Isn't it ironic?"

He kept silence.

"I can't tell you much more. She was a nice girl. She lent me some money once or twice. She was generous and quiet. That's rare. She didn't like this life but…ya know."

No, he didn't. He knew less and less. This feeling angered and exasperated him. "So she didn't keep any…bad companies? She never got into trouble?"

"Not that I know of…but you're the cop"

"Indeed" he muttered to himself and not to her. He was immersed in his thoughts and she saw that he had nothing more to ask her. Celeste stared at him, pointedly, a look that told him very directly to leave. "One last thing" he showed her the drawing "do you know this woman?"

Celeste yanked the yellow sheet off his hand and brought it close to the fire. "No" She said with a tone of perfect indifference. "I've never seen 'er."

Javert nodded and folded it again with a meticulous care. "Be careful." He brought himself to say "these nights are dangerous"

* * *

He headed south, his hands in his pockets, his fingers playing with the key of his flat. This absent and unremitting movement which provoked a shrilling sound he didn't even notice, betrayed the confusion of his thoughts. They ran through his brain, thousands at the same time and the feeling worsened as he approached the Boulevard de l'Hôpital. Now, years after, he found himself thinking about how different everything could have been had he made other choices.

That night had he confronted Valjean, had he simply knocked at his door…had he revealed himself to him and exclaimed "Ah! I was right!" he could have arrested him. From all the thoughts he had thought, from all the points of view he had considered, he never thought about what would have happened had he arrested Jean Valjean before the barricades. It was stupid, he saw now. He should have thought about that. It could perfectly have happened. It almost did.

It would have been better. Valjean wouldn't have saved his life. He could arrest him without being pestered by his conscience.

Measure Gorbeau stood in front of him as sad and dreary as he remembered. The elderly woman who had spied for him all those years ago had probably died. He didn't want to know. As he didn't want to know if the beggar whom he briefly replaced still dwelled there. And suddenly, while he was standing there, frozen like a statue, he realized that he could not. That he couldn't even consider the idea of arresting Valjean. He couldn't bear it.

He forced himself to walk away, decidedly, to the address the agents had written down on the report. He forced himself to think about his duty and the dead women on the streets and how that man was dangerous and how he had to arrest him.

The building where Desirée had lived and where hopefully her roommate still lived was as decrepit as the Gorbeau house had been. When he opened the door he could swear that its sizzle was heard in the whole street_. That much for discretion_, he thought. Third floor. The stairs were so old and made even more noise than the door. In fact, the whole building was very noisy. The walls were too thin, he noted. This information became very relevant when he approached the second flat on the on the right. Javert was ready to knock, when he heard a long, deep growl that echoed through the corridor.

His hand stopped in the air inches away from the wood.

He heard it again and this time was accompanied by a long and lusty: "Ohh God!"

His hand fell to his side. "Oh, no" he said and cursed his stupidity. He was visiting a prostitute. Of course she would have a client. He closed his eyes, rubbing them, and leaned back against the wall. "Stupid, stupid. I'm so stupid. I have been losing intelligence, surely. I've grown daft." If someone had happened to pass by him, or seen him in that moment, they would no doubt think that they were in the presence of a madman, one of those that talk to themselves or that still believe Napoleon is Emperor.

From inside the apartment the sounds of ruffling sheets became more urgent and the cracking bed grew louder. And while only seconds ago he had been able to distinguish the moans that belonged to the man and those that belonged to the woman, now they had mingled and no distinction was possible.

No, not moans. Cries.

"Oh for God's sake, get on with it!" Javert spoke up, though he was quite certain neither of them had heard him. He could barge in, he knew. He could barge in and show them his identification, the man would leave scared and hurriedly, and he could finally talk to the woman. But he quickly decided against it. He had no desire of seeing two people naked in the throes of whatever they were doing. And so he had no other option but to wait.

There was a sudden change in the volume: from loud moans there were now only rasped breaths and he knew it was over. A couple of minutes afterwards, he heard naked footsteps against the floor and voices.

Javert crossed his arms and stared at the door, waiting. When it was opened, the woman was nudging the man out softly. He was older than Javert had expected. Perhaps around his age and this information did not sit well with the inspector. They both stopped when they saw him. Her reaction was most unbecoming: she smiled crookedly. "Well, it seems I have another one. It's been a busy night. Is it the cold, Monsieur?"

Javert noted that she was talking to him and had apparently forgotten the other client, although he was standing right by her side. The man looked almost hurt. "I'm not a client", Javert informed swiftly.

She raised her trimmed eyebrows "Alright…if you prefer" And she stepped aside, inviting him to enter. Javert hesitated but obliged while she sent the other one away before he could continue to mumble promises of returning.

She closed the door and turned around to face him as Javert made an effort to remember her name. Ginette, that was it. Or at least he thought so. "So…" She approached him gently in what he supposed was an attempt at seduction. Instead, however, Javert looked around. The flat was so small he barely fit in there. There was an unmade bed behind him. The air smelled of smoke and sweat and of the deeds they had just done.

He was dragged from his reverie when she placed two hands on his chest. "Hello Monsieur…"

Javert looked down at her. It was an unhappy motion as our unfortunate inspector quickly discovered: Ginette, so was her name, took it as a sign of acceptance and tiptoed to meet his lips.

Caught unprepared, he only had time to lean back and place his hands on hers. "I am not a client" he repeated. The grip on her hands was firm but not forceful and she frowned. To her surprise, Javert smiled, anticipating her shock. "I am an inspector of the police"

His smile broadened when she stumbled back, her eyes very wide. He raised a hand "Peace. I only want to ask a few questions"

"An inspector…?" She repeated.

"I hope you haven't lost your eloquence. You were making good use of it only a few seconds ago"

She required a few moments to recover, staring at him, measuring him. As soon as she realized that he offered no danger – and that he was not there to arrest her, the seductive smile returned to her features. She was pretty with her dirty blondish hair and green eyes. Prettier than Celeste had been. _She is beautiful and she knows it,_ Javert thought.

"So…" she said "you're not a client and you want to ask questions"

"About your former roommate. Desirée"

Her smile vanished. "Ah."

"Yes"

"I didn't think the police was interested in dead whores"

"Well, I am"

"Then you're different" She said. It was extraordinary - and certainly a sign of her trade – how she was able to adapt to the circumstances: when the Inspector told her that he wanted to ask questions about her dead friend, she revealed her true self, all her sadness and grief for a simple moment. A second later, however, she went back to look at him as though he was the most desirable man in the whole of Paris.

Of course that we are well aware of Javert's steely character. And as we mentioned before, this sort of attractions, a woman's body, a woman's desire, produced no effect on him. At most, he found it amusing. So he kept his smile and once more she thought he was welcoming her advances.

"Were you close?"

"We were friends. I was very sad when she died."

"Do you remember that day?"

She nodded. "I was on the streets and heard that a girl who looked like Desirée had been found dead. I went to the police station immediately…"

"In Saint-Marcel?"

"Yes, sir." She continued "it was her. I gave them the name and this address…I thought it was stupid at the time, I mean you don't want the police knocking at your door…" She eyed him appreciatively then, "or perhaps you do"

Javert looked pointedly at her.

"And anyway, no one came. I didn't worry much. Until now" She took a step towards him and muttered "Are you going to give me cause for concern, Inspecteur?"

Ginette was looking up at him with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "This happened in April?"

"On the 25. We took turns. On a week she went to the streets and I received the clients here and then in the next week I d' go to the street and she stayed. On that week she was out. She was taking too long to return and I went on to search for her."

"That wasn't common?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes when I had a man here she would keep away for a while…I was always able to warn her…" Ginette smirked "I'm sure Monsieur l'Inspecteur was also aware that I was not alone when you got here…"

"Indeed" Said Javert

"Not that there isn't much reason for me to scream lately."

"No one would guess so" Javert replied, recalling his uncomfortable situation only minutes ago.

Her smirk became a chuckle. "I mostly fake it, you know, we all do, I mean most of them don't even know where to put it…"she met his eyes, daringly, "I bet you could make me scream"

"I highly doubt" Javert answered. "I'm a difficult man to please"

She stared at him, puzzled, trying to understand the meaning of his last sentence. Javert didn't give her the opportunity to wonder any further. "Where was she from? Does she have any family?"

Ginette stepped finally away from him and went for a cigar. "She used to live with her mother but the old lady died a few years ago. There is an aunt in Melun, I think. But they don't see each other much. I doubt the woman knows she's dead"

"And isn't there a father?"

She snorted "yes, there is one. One who abandoned her mother when she got with child. Desirée never talked about him"

"What about male friends?"

"Are you a prude now, Monsieur l'inspecteur?" She asked, "why don't you ask me straight away if she had a lover"

"Well, did she?"

"Not that I know of. Men don't fall in love with whores"

Javert sighed. This was pointless, everything she had told him was completely useless. "Do you have any idea who could have done this? Was she involved with anyone who could be dangerous or at least who had a shady aspect? Did she argue with anyone before she died?"

"Don't think so. She was very much like me. We kept to our business. You know, there's a lot of jealousy in the streets. Among women. Desirée was pretty, at least she was young, you know, she was not worn out like the others. Men like that. Some of the older women used to pick on us, especially when we arrived to this neighborhood, so we learned from that. The best she did was to keep to herself"

"Well she wasn't very successful, was she? Someone noticed her. Noticed her enough to kill her"

Ginette took a long drag. When she spoke, her tone had changed. It became lower, graver, filled with a strange seriousness. "I've thought a lot about that. But I don't have any answers, Inspector. She was not hated…she didn't get into trouble. And if she did argue once or twice…well, would anyone slit her throat opened because of that? Yes, she was a whore but apart from that…we're not bad people, you know? She didn't deserve that, she didn't deserve to be killed in that way." There was a long pause. She finished the cigar. "It doesn't make any sense. That she was murdered like that…I have racked my brains out and I find no reasons, no explanation"

Later, he would remember these words. But now he dismissed them as a lament of a woman who had lost her friend. Like he had done with Celeste, Javert showed her the picture of the dead nameless woman. Ginette didn't even blink. "I've got no idea who she is"

He was ready to leave, uncertain of what more to tell her or ask her. His brain was a blank white page. He had no ideas, no suspicions and he suddenly seemed to realize how tired he really was.

"Would you not stay?" She asked him alluringly when he opened the door.

Javert half turned to her, "no. I'm not what you're looking for"

* * *

Javert's frustration at the lack of clues or leads only increased in the following weeks which in turn made him more irritable and unbearable to be around. After writing down his reports and crossing information, the inspector saw that there was nothing that connected the two women. Camille Lemâitre was 29 and she came from Rouen. She was not much of a looker and as result she was quiet and kept to herself. Desirée was 23, born and raised in Paris. She had been beautiful, deeply involved in the bohemian lifestyle that was so famous in the city at the time, and according to his investigation, for that had been the only clue he was able to pursue, she was prone to verbal fights, that is to say, brawls and altercations.

He had talked with less biased witnesses than her roommate, namely innkeepers and tavern owners, who saw her more than once immersed in such arguments. It was a weak lead. This was Paris after all. An hour didn't go by where two women didn't argue, where neighbors didn't attempt to shatter each other's reputation, where men weren't engaged in a fistfight. But it was the only available option for the inspector and he wasted useless hours trying to find the women with whom Desirée had had words.

As he had suspected it turned out to be nothing. The woman in question, a Madame Lopez, from a Spanish village near Ciudad Rodrigo, was afflicted with rheumatism, not to mention very poor. She claimed the girl owed her money and didn't pay in time. She had looked terrified when she realized Javert was looking for a murderer and denied it firmly in a thick Spanish accent.

He had no need for her denials. Even if she had been connected to the second crime there was nothing that linked her to the first and much less to the last.

The last murder was a thorn in Javert's side, or rather in Javert's brain. It only deepened his frustration and he could no longer recall that occasion without groaning. He had been so close to catch him, to end everything. If only he had been armed, if only he had his pistols…

If only Valjean hadn't been injured. _The idiot fool_, Javert found himself thinking over and over again.

Weeks had gone by since that night. Javert had reached a dead end on his case and everyone with whom he worked had become deeply aware of this. Everyone except him; who stubbornly refused to believe in simple facts or lack thereof. This constituted a singular exception in the inspector's character. For it was something he, consciously, had never done before; Javert was above all a realist. Cluzet had tried to convince him to give up. Béranger had half ordered him to do so and even Gilbert, after meeting him by accident on patrol, had approached the subject.

He refused. Even when he stared for continuous hours at the same yellow reports, even when there was nothing to be added, nothing that _could_ be added. He had memorized the whole thing by now, knew every word by heart.

One morning, towards the end of July, Javert was in bed, deep asleep. This was an uncommon occurrence for he was an early riser and had always been but on the previous night he had offered to replace Cluzet on the patrol and as such was allowed a few hours of rest.

His slumber was nevertheless interrupted by a soft knock on the door. He didn't hear it at first, burying his head deeper into the pillow, but there it was again, more insistent, calling for him. Sleepily, he rose, stumbling across his flat, disheveled, his eyes still trying to adjust to the light.

His mind was so blurry that he wasn't even capable of forming coherent guesses of who might be at the door. He only knew that he was ready to yell at the sorrowful soul, whoever it was.

When he opened the door, however, Javert didn't utter a sound. The growl of anger stayed stuck on his throat and his mouth spoke no words.

It was Jean Valjean.

* * *

Valjean had been ready for everything. He steeled himself to be screamed at, to be insulted, to be rebuked. He was certain that the Inspector would send him away, or attempt to, would perhaps even close the door on his face. Javert would also be in a hurry, he supposed, given the early hour but Valjean had purposely chosen this time of the day for he was sure to catch Javert getting ready to leave for work.

But he had not been ready for this.

He had not been prepared to see Javert in a white, old looking nightshirt, which moreover was half opened, showing the skin of his chest.

Before we proceed we must look into Valjean's mind and how he had perceived Javert throughout the long years they had known each other. For him, Javert was more like a machine than a man. He had no needs, or if he had them, he kept so tightly controlled no one knew which they were. Javert always seemed so formidable, so absolute, that he had never imagined the inspector tired or sleepy. He had never imagined Javert in his sleeping form. It never even crossed his mind that Javert _slept_. Much less, how he slept, in what sort of clothes, and certainly, not even in his wildest dreams, he thought he would ever see Javert with his hair loose, falling over his shoulders.

"How the hell do you know where I live?!" Javert's voice thundered.

Valjean blinked. Javert seemed to have recovered from his grogginess. "I…Cosette went into the police station and asked."

Javert drew back, rubbing his eyes, "you asked your daughter to inquire after me?"

"I couldn't walk into a police station. Well, I could but…"

"But you wouldn't." They were still standing on the doorway. "What are you doing here?"

"I need a word"

"I don't want…" but he thought better, taking a deep breath. "Come in, close the door. I don't want my neighbors to see you"

Valjean didn't ask about his reasons and simply did as he was told. He looked around. Javert's apartment was made of two divisions, a larger room, where they were now, that combined kitchen and living room, and a smaller one, Javert's bedroom. Due to the stupidity of the foreman who had been in charge of the building construction, there was no door separating these two divisions; merely the threshold. Valjean saw then Javert's disarranged bed which confirmed his initial suspicions.

"Cosette thinks I wanted to thank you properly."

"That was what you told her?"

"It is the true"

"Not the whole truth, surely." Javert added "at least, I hope you have a better reason than that to interrupt my sleep. If you don't have, I suggest you leave, and when I say suggest, I mean demand"

Valjean focused on him, forgetting for a moment that he was inside the wolf's lair. "I want to thank you for having helped me. And for having helped Monsieur Marius. I never did thank you for that"

"There's no need"

"There is. You gave 80 francs to the driver. That is a lot of money"

Javert observed him and saw Valjean fiddling with something inside his pocket in the very same manner he played with his keys, "don't you even think about it" he said suddenly "I know you have money inside that pocket. I've said it once and I'll say it again for the last time: I'm not your charity case."

"It would be fair. You are fond of justice, are you not inspector?" Valjean was not able to stop himself and cringed inwardly at his own words, knowing Javert would surely snap at him. To his surprise, he simply chuckled depreciatively.

"You are not giving me money. So that is settled. Will you leave now?"

Valjean sighed. Javert was being purposely difficult. "I'm sorry I have awakened you. I thought you would be up and about…preparing to go to work"

"I was on patrol last night" He informed as though it explained everything.

"Have you found out who killed that woman?"

"No." Javert's tone changed, the carefree façade he had been putting on began to crack. "You really ought to go Valjean"

"I want to know who did it. The man almost killed me as well"

"I don't know who did it"

"Did you investigate at least?"

Javert raised his eyes to meet him. His hair had fallen over his brow and eyes and they glowed like a cat's, dangerously. "Of course I did," he snapped. "A crime was committed before my own eyes, do you not think I would look into it?"

Valjean nodded, clearly biting something back. "And you found nothing?"

Javert sighed. "I…well, there were more women killed in the same fashion." Valjean looked up, alarmed, "other two in the last six months. One in December and the other in April."

"How do you know they were killed by the same man?"

"I know" Javert said with a tone that left no space for argument. "The crimes are very alike. They way he does it."

"But why? Why would anyone…"

"I don't know," he muttered then and Valjean realized how much it pained him to admit it.

"The other women…were they…"

"Prostitutes? Yes. They were. One was called Camille Lemâitre, the oldest. The other was a Desirée. I talked with some people who knew them and there is nothing that connects them, nothing at all"

"And who was the woman we found?"

Javert hand ran through his hair and he finally seemed to realize that it was loose. Going back into his bedroom he picked the ribbon and wrapped his hair around it. "I have no idea. I don't know," he admitted again. "That is another mystery. No one has ever seen her. No one knows her, not even her name. There's a drawing of her that I show around but no one recognizes her. It's ridiculous"

"You think people are lying?"

"Of course they are. These women know each other. Men…innkeepers, they know who they are"

Valjean was silent for a moment. "Could I see the drawing?"

Javert frowned suspiciously at him, but acquiesced a second later. Valjean stared at the image for a long time, then read the Inspector's description of the colour of her eyes and hair on the margin. "Why would people lie?"

"If I knew that I would know who she is" Javert replied annoyed, annoyed at having to admit that there were many things, far too many, he didn't know.

Valjean gave him back the sheet of paper. They were in silence for a long time and it suddenly occurred to Valjean that in all their meetings there was always this moment of hesitant, awkward silence. He blurted, finally: "are you going to return to that bridge?"

Javert spurned around, "there it is."

"Javert…"

"Again: not your charity case"

"I don't want you to be that."

"You won't have my death on your conscience"

"Can you promise that?"

Silence. Again.

"You can't"

"I don't have any power over your conscience, Valjean. Whatever ails you is created by your mind. I will do what I must"

"You always do"

"Don't act as though you know me!" Javert roared.

"No." Valjean nodded. "But you won't arrest me?"

"Is that why you're here?"

"No, Javert. I have told you why I am here. I have come to thank you." He paused and then said "And to ask for a favour"

"What favour?"

Valjean sighed deeply and suddenly looked 100 years older. "The boy…Marius Pontmercy. He is alive and he is recovering. But he has gaps in his memory, you see. He thinks he saw me at the barricades but he is not certain. And I don't know if he remembers you…he remembers little. Cosette, although she knows you were there, for I told her so, she has no idea that I broke into the barricades as well. I don't want her to know. I wouldn't want to worry her."

"Why not?"

"Well, I told Cosette that I found you on Pont au Change when I was about to go to the police station to inquire after what was happening at the barricades. And that you told me that the revolt had failed, that they were dead, but that a boy who looked like Marius was one of the only to survive"

"More lies, I see. And very poorly made up ones. Aren't they sweethearts? Your daughter knows I am not dead"

"Indeed. And this is what I wanted to ask you. I don't think Marius will remember my presence. And I don't know if he remembers you. But if he does, he thinks you're dead. You were tied up there for hours, he surely remembers you. If he finds out you are alive he may want to ask you questions." Valjean swallowed and approached Javert. "I was…hoping you could tell him that I was not there. That you did find me on that bridge and passed me on the information. That one of the agents told you that he had been found alive. That a witness saw someone carrying him through the sewers but did not see the face of his savior"

Javert stared at him with an air of incredulity "Valjean, this version of the story has so many loopholes that the boy would have to be completely devoid of intelligence not to see them"

Valjean bowed his head. "Please," he muttered. "He is completely convinced by now that I was not there. I'm certain of it. Please"

It sounded like begging and Javert hated it. "I don't understand. If they are fond of each other…isn't he someone of importance? I had that impression."

"His father was a baron"

"You see? So it is a good match for your daughter, is it not?"

Valjean's face darkened and when he spoke his voice was even lower than before. "Indeed"

"So why wouldn't you want your future son in law to know that you saved his life? I am by no means an expert in this sort of thing but it seems a good starting point"

"I have my reasons"

"Stupid reasons, no doubt" Javert declared but upon seeing Valjean's expression he decided to say "I am not going to arrest you."

It was such a simple sentence and yet it was incredibly hard for the inspector to state aloud and to the convict himself. It was hard to swallow, it was hard to hear these words coming out of his mouth; it suddenly became hard to breathe. Valjean had been in his presence for far too long and he could no longer bear it.

"If I say yes will you leave now?"

Valjean stared at him. "What?"

"If I say that yes, I will lie for you if I have to, will you leave this house now?"

"Are you going to return to that bridge?"

"Leave"

He had the faint impression that Valjean wanted to say something, to add something and Javert couldn't – wouldn't – hear it. But the older man simply nodded and calmly left his house.

The inspector stood, immobile, at the centre of the apartment, listening to his footsteps as they slowly faded away.

* * *

**Regarding Javert's hair. Historically speaking, it is doubtful that Javert would be able to pull a long hair. Hugo probably never envisioned him like that. Considering the fashion of the 20's and 30's, it is highly unlikely. But the long hair is a musical addiction that I actually love and I think it fits him in many ways. So I have created a sort of background history to justify why he wears it in that fashion and that will be disclosed in the future. **

**I want to deeply thank everyone who has reviewed and is reading this story. The positive feedback is amazing and very encouraging and I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and feel inclined to review!**


	5. Areopagus sermon

Paul Cluzet had been married in 1827 with a girl from Bretagne. He was conveniently in love and thought himself to be very lucky: his wife's parents were from Brest and she and her sister had been sent to Paris to serve as maids in the house of a Madame Cloutier, a widower whose husband had been an army colonel. When the elderly woman had died, she had a left a small sum of money to both sisters. That was when the couple decided to marry.

They had a two year old son, Cluzet's pride for he thought the boy was extremely intelligent for his age. The little thing, although smart in the way only children can be, was sickly and demanded much care from his parents. The sous-brigadier had then no option than ask earnestly to be replaced during the night's patrol. Javert had obliged more out of his own selfish reasons than solidarity for his colleague. With his case virtually stagnated, Javert knew that he would not be able to sleep. Lately, his rest was originated in exhaustion. To sleep peacefully was no longer possible. To go home and simply lay down in bed, waiting for the darkness to engulf and cradle him was unbearable.

Javert survived on coffee and on night patrols.

Given the reasons we have mentioned, two weeks after Valjean had shown up at his door, Javert found himself patrolling the streets of his quartier with Michel, the oldest sergent de ville. Apart from him there were Marcel, a boy of only nineteen, Robert who was absent and Max (whose father had been an ardent supporter of Robespierre and decided his son and the revolutionary ought to share the same name. Maximilien thought it was odious and called himself Max).

Michel and his other impressionable colleagues were in awe of Javert and followed his every action with a revering gaze. Javert had become a legend since he had arrested the patron minette gang all those months ago. The fact that they had escaped was a fault accountable to the prison and Prefecture and never on Javert. This admiration, however, was mingled with a tinge of fear or respect for the inspector's natural authority.

Therefore, when they turned into the corner of the Halle aux Vins and Javert stopped, Michel mimicked his actions, waiting for his orders. The inspector was apparently staring at the whores on the end of the boulevard. A frown, which deepened at each passing second, appeared on his brow.

"What is wrong, sir?" Michel asked following his gaze. There were three women mingling by the door of an old yellow building and a man was among them. It was an elderly gentleman for although he was wearing a worker's cap, his hair was bright white. Javert stared for a long time and when Michel had already forgotten he had asked a question, the inspector told him:

"Go to the Place du Pantheon and see if Philippe and his agents are around. He usually patrols this part of the arrondissement on Wednesdays. Tell him that I want to meet him. In the tavern of Borbot."

The other man didn't move, alarmed that Javert hadn't even looked at him while giving him the order. "But sir…are you certain?" Michel eyed the group Javert was focusing on. "You may need help"

"What I need, agent, is for you to follow my orders." His voice was cold as ice, the kind that didn't allow any space for argument. Michel nodded and slowly stepped away, looking over his shoulder, noting that the inspector hadn't moved yet.

When Javert heard his footsteps fading, he marched forward in their direction. The chattering stopped when he reached them except for the older man who kept talking, apparently telling the women not to wander alone at night these days. The sound of his voice and the nature of his advice were unmistakable. It was the remaining evidence Javert needed.

He seized his arm, turning him around. Valjean, acting on reflex, attempted to defend himself, surely thinking he was being mugged, but Javert caught his wrist. His eyes widened a little when he found himself face to face with the inspector, their noses almost touching. "Good evening, Monsieur."

"Javert" he muttered.

Javert took a step back and released his wrist. The iron grip on his arm, however, didn't lessen. "I need a word with you, Monsieur"

One of the women behind Valjean said, "What a wonderful sense of opportunity you have, inspector!" He recognized her as Celeste, the same he had interrogated all those nights ago. "We were trying to see which one of us the handsome gentleman would pick!"

Valjean wiped his head to her and stammered, "No, no, that was not my intention you…"

Another woman got a hold of Valjean's other arm. "You gave us too much money to be alone tonight, sir…"

Javert rolled his eyes, "Oh God"

Valjean with his raised eyebrows and faint blush was still trying to find his words. "I can assure you mademoiselle…"

"She hasn't been a mademoiselle for 15 years" Javert stated and then looked at the women, "you don't know who you're talking to. This man is a saint. Not even Mary Magdalene herself would take him to bed."

"But the money…"

"The money is a gift you shall never receive again from any well meaning man." Javert interrupted. He yanked Valjean's arm. "And you are coming with me."

Valjean submitted easily and didn't argue. He was too embarrassed to face the prostitutes and between that and being dragged away by Javert he gladly chose the latter. He heard one of them shout "Givin' out money is not a crime Inspector!"

But Javert paid no heed. He led Valjean through the streets until he turned into one of the alleys on their right. He tossed the older man against the wall and faced him. "What are you doing here?" He asked quietly but with a sort of hastily urgency. "Do you frequent whores now, is that it?"

"Of course not, don't be absurd!" Valjean seemed to have abandoned his stoic calmness for the first time. Javert almost smiled.

"What are you doing here?" the inspector inquired once more. "Why were you with those women? Does your mindless charity know no boundaries?"

"It was not charity this time" Valjean said and he bent his head.

"Then what?" Javert insisted, growing angry. He was met only with silence. Valjean's reluctance arose something in him, a suspicion, an idea, one of those nuances that struck us like lightening and suddenly the inspector tightened his grip on the man's arm, vaguely aware it would leave a bruise. "You! It's the woman's death, isn't it? That's why you are here! Are we doing a bit of private investigation, are we now?!"

"These women would more easily talk with a worker than with a policeman…I thought…"

"A worker who gives alms!"

Valjean placed his own hand upon Javert's and slowly, almost gently, pulled his hand away with a minimal effort. "I am only trying help."

"Help whom? This is a matter for the police not for the ordinary people, especially not for a convict."

This brought up a reaction, finally. Valjean looked up at Javert. "Helping you. And the women who died. I want to know who killed them. And as you said you had no clues I thought I could find something out."

"You think you would succeed where I failed?"

"I thought it was worth a try."

Javert took another step towards him, "you will keep away from this business. This has not to do with you."

"I want to help."

"You can't help. It's not your duty. No concerned citizen helps the police much less a convict."

"Well but that's not true" Valjean said, "that's not what I read in the newspapers. There are former convicts working for the Sûreté…"

Javert's reaction was extreme. He uttered a cry that contained all the anger, frustration and despise, one of those "Ah!" that reveal, in a manner better than any other, a man's thoughts. "Vidocq and his little thieves! Yes, we are so proud of them that they don't even work in the Prefecture with the other divisions."

Valjean sighed. "Javert please, I want to help. You have reached a dead end on the case, you said it yourself. You don't even know the name of the girl we found. Somehow, I'm not entirely certain that your superiors' priority is to know who is killing such wretched women. If you would just allow me to talk to some of the witnesses or friends I…"

"No" Javert said again, firmly with a tinge of impatience or tiredness or both. "You are a former convict who broke parole. You are a criminal. You are the opposite of myself, my work, my life."

Valjean's eyes gained a new fire "I would never kill…"

"Let me finish!" Javert bristled, "you are a former convict, a criminal still according to the law and this is a matter for the police and you will not meddle. It is not your business. It is even dangerous for you! Men like you always live in fear of being caught, I know how it is. And it is dangerous for me as well since every time I speak with you, every time I see you turn your back to me and walk away peacefully, I'm betraying my duty. So, you will keep in your little hole in the ground and take advantage of the fact that I have decided, with great pains, to forget about your existence. I want you to cease to exist, Valjean. Once and for all you will listen to me. You will keep away from my case, my police station and myself as well."

Valjean swallowed. Javert saw his throat convulsing. Half a minute after, the older man nodded. "Point taken"

"Good." He glanced around "now go away, before someone sees you and asks questions that I cannot possibly answer."

* * *

Cosette and Valjean resumed their walks. It was an occasion Valjean cherished. They left after dinner two or three times a week and never ventured to the other bank of the Seine. Cosette liked to walk by the river so naturally, he indulged her. They strolled the embankment, her little hand on the crook of his arm. Her eyes were on the water although she would always remark on how beautiful Notre Dame was when she happened to gaze upon it. Valjean's gaze was always on her.

Those were bittersweet moments. She walked with him but she was not really there. Her mind was with the boy, Marius, and with the letters they had written to each other. He hadn't written much for his recovery was slow but Valjean noticed Cosette reading every one of his notes as though they were letters from Voltaire. As for Marius, he was out of danger and the care of Cosette, who had been there when he regained his conscience, and of his grandfather would ensure a full recovery but it would be slow and Jean Valjean found himself wishing for more time, for the extension of the boy's confinement.

Even so, Jean Valjean was almost happy. Or he was at least, when he managed to forget about the future.

One night, a warm August night, Cosette had convinced Valjean to prolong their stay and they were returning later than usual to Rue d'Homme Armée, when they saw a small bundle wrecked against a wall in the corner of rue du roi-de-Sicile. Instinctively, Valjean placed his hand over his pocket where his purse was. As he neared the vagabond he suffered a small shock that took form in a gasp from Cosette's lips.

It was not a man as he had originally thought, it was barely a person. The dim light and the dirt of her face made her featureless. It could be a boy or a girl, could be a child or an older teenager. What impressed him the most was the shivering: the little bundle shivered and trembled so much he could hear the chattering of teeth. Valjean, whose coat heated him to the point of suffocation took it off immediately and placed it upon the form, crouching in front of her.

"Thank you Monsieur," she mumbled, sniffing the fabric as a puppy would, grasping it closer to her body.

Her voice denounced her. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I think I am 15…or 16. 16 I think, sir"

"When did you last eat?"

"I..I can't remember well, sir. Yesterday. Or the day before, maybe"

He looked up at Cosette but she did not glanced back. Her eyes were fixed on the girl but she was not really seeing her. Her mind was in a distant place and Valjean somehow guessed that this time, it was not Marius who occupied it.

She spoke next, "Look at me…"

The person moved her boney bonny neck, her eyes two emotionless pits of those who were taught by life not to feel, and she looked straight at Cosette.

"You were in that house…a few months ago. You had your hand broken and bloodied. I remember you. Don't you remember, papa? When we went to that hovel…the gentleman was an actor. You gave him money and your coat. There was another girl."

"My sister is dead," she said.

Valjean muttered, "You are Jondrette's daughter?"

"Was that his name?" Cosette asked, confused.

Valjean didn't answer her. "Where is your family?"

The girl peered at him with the curiosity of a beggar measuring a man's wealth. "Mama and 'Ponine are dead. Papa…papa left."

"Left?" Valjean repeated

"He left Paris"

"And he left you behind?" Cosette, who was ignorant not only of Jondrette's true identity but also of what he had done to her father, thought there was nothing more abhorrent than a father abandoning an child and found herself comparing this conduct to the man who kneeled in front of her.

She could only nod. There was nothing more she could do for in truth, the girl did not know where her father had gone or why he had left her behind. Fortunately, we were able to deepen the meanders of this specific tale with the help of an official of the state department of Louisiana. Thénardier, who had in the meanwhile assumed his true name, had travelled to the United States of America finding that the business of slave trading would bring him more profit than the robbery of elderly gentlemen in Paris. As for his youngest daughter, he reasoned that he had lost so much already that he would surely not miss her at all.

"Where do you live?" Cosette asked softly, guessing the answer already.

"Wherever I sit, mademoiselle."

Valjean and Cosette exchanged a look. He sighed. The girl mistook it for impatience and tightened the coat around her, protectively.

Valjean then uttered with the gentlest tone he could muster, "What is your name, child?"

"My…my name is Azelma, Monsieur."

* * *

Azelma went on to live with them. At least, Valjean said, until they found her a more suitable home or some honest occupation. He feared that Cosette would remember the girl and ask questions for after all they had lived together as children, but her memory of her went only as far as the visit to the Gorbeau House. Azelma on the other hand, had no recollection of her father's angry speech to M. Leblanc and would hardly recognize Cosette who had changed immensely throughout the years. It was a thin balance and a dangerous game but he had grown used to live in such a limbo by now.

Furthermore, he could not bring himself to deny Azelma. What Thénardier had done shocked him and brought upon him so great a disgust that nauseated him. She was so skinny, so hungry, that when they returned home that night and placed food in front of her, she ate greedily, devouring it so fast as though she feared they would snatch the plate from her. After that, Azelma never failed to express her astonishment before the fact that Valjean and Cosette ate three meals a day, perhaps even more if they wanted. She gazed at their table, which we know to be modest, thinking that they dinned like Kings.

Cosette took an instant liking of her. It was motivated by pity which is the poorer sister to compassion, but within a few days she treated Azelma as if they had always been best friends. Only when he observed them together did Valjean realize that having a father was not enough. Cosette had been in need of a mother and sister. A family. Something he never provided. He wondered if that was what she was looking for in Marius.

Eventually, Azelma recovered her colours and Valjean send in for a doctor to treat her hand properly, which even after all these months still hurt her. Washed and dressed, Azelma was almost pretty. She was shy, however, and talked nothing in the beginning and very little afterwards. Cosette did most of the talking whenever they were together.

She had been living with them for a couple of weeks when one morning, Cosette remarked upon a small article she was reading in the _Moniteur_. It was a two line text that mentioned the murder of three women in the XIII arrondissement. "Is your inspector friend looking into this? Was because of this woman you were wounded?"

Both Valjean and Azelma tensed up. Him at the mention of Javert, she at the mention of the police. "Yes, we found the third one" he said noncommittally.

"You were wounded, monsieur?" Azelma asked and it was so rare for her to speak that he answered benignly.

"Yes. It was a month and something ago. I found this woman dead in an alley in quartier san marceau."

"Who is she?" she inquired.

"We don't know," said Valjean. "No one was able to identify her."

"I…I know that quartier. My father would take me there sometimes. He would tell me to go with my sister, at night."

Valjean froze. He suddenly remembered Thénardier's oldest daughter who had approached him after Mass and whom he had followed in the fiacre to the Gorbeau Tenant. She had been pretty with an air of despairing experience that only some fallen women had. He did not answer this and let the matter drop, not wanting Cosette to come to the same realization he had.

It was only later, when he was getting ready for bed that it occurred to him. Cosette and Azelma were also preparing to retire for the night. He found them in the kitchen, having a glass of milk. "I need to ask you a question, mademoiselle."

She merely looked at him. "The woman I found…if I describe her to you…if I tell you that she was…" he trailed off, glancing at Cosette, "a street worker…do you think you could have an idea of who she is?"

"Papa, that's awfully vague."

"I know, but even so it's worth a try."

"I can try, Monsieur. But I cannot promise anything."

"She was blonde. She had blue eyes, light eyes. Very light. Her face was very thin as were her lips…she wore a lot of that make up woman use, you see?" He pressed his lips together, brining the recollections from the back of his mind to his mouth. He remembered Javert's handwriting on the drawing and the face of the woman. "She had a mole above her lip, in the left side of her face…and her eyebrows were…trimmed. Excessively so. They were simply lines above her eyes, you see? And she the smallest nose, even smaller than yours."

"You say blue eyes…and a mark on her left lip? One of those that make the person look pretty?"

Valjean was at a loss. "I…I suppose so. Does it ring any bell?"

Azelma hesitated. She opened her mouth twice only to close it again. He saw she was closer to denying than confirming it. He took a step towards her. "This is very important" he said softly, "there are lives at stake here…and this can help people."

"Like you helped me?"

"Yes, like we helped you."

She still lingered. "I am not sure, sir. You said this happened two months ago. I haven't seen her since then and it might be her but I don't know sir…I couldn't tell just by…"

"Whatever you know might help."

Azelma curled her fists. "There was a woman I knew. She was like that. With very light eyes and that mole. I remember seeing her and talking to her…if it's her that is, I…"

"What's her name?"

"Marianne. Marianne Vallée, I think. She…. She was with a friend of my father."

"Who is this friend?" Valjean asked with a whisper.

"He's Montparnasse."

* * *

Javert was carrying two buckets of water to his apartment when he halted suddenly. He put them down with a loud thump and stared, not believing his eyes. "I shouldn't even be surprised anymore" he mumbled to himself. Jean Valjean was standing at his door, leaning against the opposite wall, with his hat on his hands. He had noticed him first since Javert had been too busy trying not to spill the water.

Javert opened his mouth but Valjean raised a hand, "Before you remind me that I told you I would stay away from you, I think you should listen to what I have to say."

"Oh and why is that?"

"It interests you, Inspector."

"Somehow, I highly doubt that."

"But would you listen at least? Please, Inspector."

Javert closed his eyes very briefly and sighed audibly. Valjean almost smiled. Javert brought the buckets to the door but did not open it. He turned to the older man. "Well?"

Valjean's eyebrows rose very slightly. "Are we going to talk here?"

"Yes"

"You were very adamant the other day in not letting your neighbors see me."

"Now I'm very adamant in not seeing you. Come Valjean," he said, "tell me what do you want, this time?"

Valjean wet his lower lip with his tongue. "I have found out who the girl is. The woman we found."

If he expected a spectacular reaction he was severely disappointed. Javert merely stared at him and told him, coolly "I thought I told you not to meddle."

"I did not meddle. The information…came to me."

"Oh?"

"Yes"

A pause. Javert was fidgeting with his keys. "So? Who is she?"

"The information does not interest you? Do you already know?" Valjean puzzled before his apparent disinterest.

"I want to know. Tell me."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it isn't…" Javert remarked, "you're wasting my time, Valjean, this is just another…"

"I have conditions."

Slowly, a smile started to play on Javert's lips. "Conditions? You have conditions?"

"Do you know who the woman is already?"

"No, I don't." Javert admitted, "But if you do, it is your obligation…"

"Peace, inspector" Valjean raised a hand. "I will tell you but I have conditions."

Javert pressed his lips together and mumbled something against his loose cravat. Valjean didn't catch it but chose not to quibble. He was certain it was not a compliment. "What conditions are those?"

Valjean straightened his back and said deadly calm, "You will let me assist you in the investigation."

"No" Javert said, plainly and bluntly and turned to open the door.

"Then I won't tell you."

"Of course you will." Javert said while twisting the key around, "You want to know who killed the woman as much as I do."

Valjean took a sharp intake of breath. "That is not only what I want."

His movements ceased. "What do you want then?"

Suddenly, a quiet stillness descended upon that corridor, similar to the moment that precedes the landing of a grenade. Neither of them moved nor spoke. There were voices coming the lower floor but neither of them paid attention. Javert's hand grasped the key inside of the lock and Valjean was rubbing his palm against the black fabric of his trousers.

"When I found you that night you were about to kill yourself, Javert." He was treading carefully, "You told me it was because of my actions. And somehow, I don't think you are out of danger. If my actions provoked that, it is only fair that they try to fix it."

Javert whirled around, fire in his eyes, like a lion ready to attack, ready to jump upon Valjean. He did not fail to notice it. "What I mean is that I want to do something for you."

"Why?" Javert inquired simply. "Why do you have that ridiculous need to save the world? It is an idealized notion of yourself and of the others around you."

"I believe no one is exempted from salvation. There is good in you. I respect you. You are an honest man. I told you that many years ago."

"You also told me I killed that woman."

Valjean was stuck. He didn't know how to respond and so he avoided it. "The point stands."

"I don't need your help, your mercy or your kindness. I've had enough of it."

"But if you did, would you ask for it?" Javert didn't answer. "Then let me give it for free. Furthermore, I won't tell you who the woman is if you don't let me help you."

"You wouldn't be capable."

"I would." Now it was Valjean who resembled the lion, the predator. "I assure you I would. I won't tell you and you will never know. You will never know who she is and probably you won't know who killed her too. I am ready to do this, Javert. I am ready never to tell you."

"What If I arrest you?"

"Then you arrest me."

Valjean was praying for Javert not to call his bluff. He would tell Javert of course, even if he refused his help. That man had to be caught. This strategy was endangering lives, was jeopardizing true justice. To see that man, that murderer behind bars, that would be true justice.

Javert was staring at him. Valjean strived to hold the baleful gaze. Javert was a remarkable man in every sense but the blue eyes screamed at everyone, "I am Javert and you shall not forget me".

The police inspector sighed deeply and closed his eyes. It could be interpreted as a sign of exasperation. But it was not. For a moment, a single second, his expression was one of pure, raw, breathless pain. For Valjean, it was as if he had been punched in the stomach. He had known Javert for years, had seen him in Toulon, had worked with in M-sur-M. He had witness Javert's shame, Javert's anger, Javert's honesty.

But he had never seen him in pain. "Inspector…" he took a step forward but was stopped but Javert's eyes, now reopened.

"Very well. I accept your conditions."

The detached tone made Valjean say, "Do you promise?"

"What?"

"Give me your word of honour."

"I'm working with and sheltering a convict, Valjean. I have no honour."

"Even so. You never break a promise."

Javert looked at him. "Sometimes I wonder what you think of me. What notions of me you have in your head, Jean Valjean."

Valjean pressed his lips together and stared down at his feet. He didn't know if he was meant to answer this question, or if it was a question. He didn't understand. When it came to Javert, Valjean understood very little. Javert was the policeman who had pursued him, he was the Law. Sometimes, he almost became the law itself. Merciless but dutiful. Honest but unkind. A goodness used for wrong purposes. Valjean smiled at this thought. How grand would Javert be if his goodness was motivated by the right reasons. The only thing he was certain of was that the realization that he was a good man, or that he strived to be, brought Javert to the edge of suicide. To enunciate it like that in his head made it sound absurd. He was aware it was likely too simplistic, too demeaning of Javert's issues. There were so many things Valjean didn't know about Javert despite having known him for years and years. He never wanted to know. The Inspector was the law, and the law was dangerous.

"I know little of you. But I know that you are undeserving of the fate you reserved for yourself."

Javert turned around and opened the door. He got hold of the buckets again and carried them inside. Valjean opened his mouth to offer his help but Javert said before he could utter a sound, "I can manage."

Valjean stood at the doorstep, hesitating, not knowing whether he should step in or stay where he was. Javert wasn't inclined to help him solve this conundrum. He went about the apartment, busily, until he stopped to look at him with his hands on his hips. "Well? I have promised. Will you tell me now?"

"I can't. You have to come to my house, there is someone there who I believe knows who she is. You ought to talk to this person. You probably also should bring the drawing."

Javert frowned. "Someone? Who is this someone? Why didn't tell you me this in the beginning?"

"She is a girl from the streets. She is…the daughter of Thénardier. Do you remember him? He was…"

"The innkeeper."

"He went by the name of Jondrette here in Paris."

Javert's eyes widened. His demeanor changed all of the sudden. He snapped his fingers in an almost cheerful manner. "So that is where I know him from! His face was familiar but I could not make it out from where…" he snorted before smirking a little, "Paris was not very kind to them was it?"

"I have his daughter in my house. But she doesn't know who I am. And she doesn't know that she shared some years with Cosette…if you could not tell her…"

"I don't see how that would come up" Javert was putting his coat back on. "Why is the girl in your house anyway?"

"I took her in. She will stay with us until I find her something better. She was in the streets, you see. Thénardier left Paris."

"Of course he would leave his daughter behind, kids are too much trouble…the little mongrel. Oh I would have liked to get my hands on him, the sorrowful bastard, there's one that shouldn't have escaped" Javert went on muttering while he straightened his collar, "but there were more, there were more children. Another girl at least."

"She's dead" Valjean said still not quite certain the inspector was talking to him.

"Dead. And the mother?"

"I suppose she's dead as well."

"So you found another charity case? That's good for you. And for me as well" he commented. He opened a drawer where he kept the yellow drawing which having been passed from hand to hand, had become creased.

"I am simply helping her. It was Cosette's idea."

"Isn't it your house?" Javert gathered his keys. He stood in front of Valjean and looked pointedly at him so he would let him pass. Valjean stepped outside the apartment, allowing Javert to lock the door.

"I don't want the child in the streets."

Javert put his hat on again. "Jean Valjean the convict strikes again, I see. A well meaning man who gives no thoughts about the consequences of his actions. So, Valjean, lead the way."

* * *

**Thank you so much for all the reviews/favourites/alerts. Feedback is always welcome and I would love to hear your thoughts about the chapter. Also, a word of thanking to my Beta, Ayla (ephemerayla on tumblr) who is awesome. **


	6. Into the storm

**First, I would like to thank you for all the reviews. You people are amazing and I thank you deeply. Your support is what prompts me to write in many occasions. **

**Secondly, it has been brought to my attention that I should have made clear in the beginning that this story will eventually, in time, become slash. To be honest, I never thought this would be a problem because well, this is fanfiction and because for me it is a simple consequence of the relationship they are building here and how I see their connection canon-wise. I am sorry if this wasn't clear in the beginning and I'm sorry if this bothers any of you. This fic is about their relationship, the connection that these two men enjoy. The physical part of it – or the romantic part of it if you will – is just a small part of their bond, of their connection. This is how I see it and this is what I'll be trying to transmit.**

**Thank you for your patience. Enjoy!**

* * *

Valjean had kept a cab waiting. The driver, an elderly man, had dozed off but Valjean shook him slowly, almost gently and placed a few extra francs on his hand. Javert observed this motions until Valjean turned to him and gestured him to enter the vehicle. They settled together, side by side, shoulders touching, although Javert pressed himself against the window, the furthest possible from Jean Valjean.

He noticed, of course, but chose not to comment. He also did not remark upon the irony of the situation. Was it their fate to end up in confined spaces, avoiding each other's gazes? "The absence of a dead body is a welcomed improvement" Javert said. They had been sharing the same thoughts, apparently. Valjean, without looking at him for he also stared stubbornly out of the window, stifled a chuckle.

"I agree."

All of sudden, he felt Javert's eyes on him, watching him, hovering him. "How is the boy?"

Valjean made a point not to look at him and he cursed himself when he realized that he was sitting by Javert's side and the man missed nothing. "He is recovering, I think."

"You don't like him." Javert stated with that tone that revealed he knew much more than he was supposed to.

"I saved his life. I went to the barricades because of him…"

"You're here because of me and you don't like me."

Valjean opened his mouth to respond but he shut it again. The answer did not come easily perhaps because he had no answer to give. Perhaps, he reasoned, because it was true but he could not say it. Or perhaps it was not true; perhaps it was because he felt nothing. Valjean was astonishingly neutral when he happened to consider Javert. He was well aware he ought to pity him. Even hate seemed a more logical explanation. But he felt neither, he felt nothing and almost blamed himself for that. "I never said that."

"You don't need to. You're here out of duty, Valjean," Javert said, and he added to himself after a long pause, "and so am I."

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, both of them immersed in thoughts. Javert once more considering the man beside him and Valjean's thoughts drifted once more to Marius and Cosette and how Javert seemed to know much more than he ought to. How, he wondered?

When they arrived, Valjean stepped out and Javert followed him. It had grown dark. The street was only vaguely illuminated by the lights that shone from the windows. Valjean was in the process of telling to tell the cabdriver to wait for Javert but the inspector was quick to oppose it. "I will return on foot."

"Javert, you live on the other side of the city."

"I can walk."

"It's nighttime."

"I am armed."

"With a cudgel." Valjean pointed out the obvious. "You don't need…"

"Valjean, get on with it. Just because I have accepted your conditions does not mean I have to accept your charity."

Reluctantly, Valjean sent the man away and opened the door to his building. It was the oddest of sensations: a tug of discomfort in his chest, as if he felt a palpable danger wavering around him. He wanted nothing more than to run away. When he had gone to Javert's apartment it was the inspector's territory and that empowered him. But strangely, at the same time, Valjean was protected. He knew this was not rational. The inspector had been in his house before. Javert had known for months where he lived, he had told him himself, he had actually given him the address. Javert could have come in and arrested him whenever he pleased. He never did. He would not do it now. But still, Valjean had been on the run for more than 15 years. To invite a policeman into his own house, to show him plainly how he deluded the law, was against every one of Valjean's natural instincts.

Inside the apartment, Valjean smelled one of Touissant's stews. It was a warm and welcoming scent. He was hungry. "Will you stay for dinner?"

Javert shot him a warningly look. "Where is the girl?" he asked back, decided not even to dignify Valjean's question with an answer.

"She is in her bed, in my daughter's bedroom. Cosette must be with her."

Javert went past him to the corridor, his memory leading him first to Valjean's bedroom and then to the division in front. The older man followed him resigned, and opened another door, one Javert had not yet reached. They exchanged a look. Valjean seemed almost amused; Javert was plainly annoyed.

"Cosette, Azelma." Valjean greeted them. Javert halted behind him.

The younger girl was still in bed, as the doctor had recommended rest. Cosette was keeping her company. Valjean's eyes followed his daughter's hands and saw Marius's notes and letters spread through the blankets.

"Good evening, Papa."

"There is someone here to see you, Azelma. He's a fr…a friend." Valjean thought that Javert was likely to mind this way of addressing him. "A friend from the police"

"The police?" She stuttered.

Valjean raised a hand, "peace. He's known to me. He just wants to ask you a few questions. You are in no danger here."

He heard Javert cough impatiently back in the corridor. Even so, Valjean made a point of waiting for Azelma's timid nod. He then gestured for Javert to enter the bedchamber. When the inspector walked in, passing casually behind Valjean, taking off his hat, the girl yelped.

"It's you!" she mumbled, terrified, and cowered against the covers like the child who hides from the monster.

Javert sighed. This told Valjean he had foreseen this reaction.

"I'm not here to arrest you" Javert informed.

"Monsieur Fauchelevant," she turned to Valjean, pleading, wide-eyed, ignoring Cosette's attempt to reassure her, "please, don't let him take me, please I'll be good…please."

Valjean went on and kneeled next to her, taking her hand. Javert snorted gruffly crossing his arms in front of his chest. "He is not here to take you, he's here to help. Please Azelma, hush. I won't let anything happen to you."

Her breathing was still uneven and she gave no signs of slowing down. Javert stepped in then, "The faster you answer my questions the faster I leave." His tone was authoritative, stern, but its logic, amazingly, convinced the girl. She stopped fidgeting and stared at him, mouth half parted like the baby who wails and kicks but ceases when he hears his father strong steady voice.

She nodded, eventually. "I'll answer, Monsieur l'inspecteur."

Javert straightened and Valjean muttered to him, "You seem to have a talent to make friends everywhere you go."

Javert scowled at him. "Mademoiselle," he said to Cosette, "if you could give us a moment."

Cosette hesitated, torn between looking strangely at Valjean for she had never heard him cracking that sort of mocking joke and at Azelma who had grown pale. Her father's soft assertion made her agree and shut the door behind her.

"You raised her in your image."

Valjean knew it was a provocation. Although he wanted to, he didn't quibble further. Javert placed with a foreign care his hat on the bed and looked down at Azelma. "I won't arrest you," he said. Valjean was surprised at hearing the softness in his tone. No, it was not softness. Javert's voice remained stern and imposing but not as much as before. The change was so noticeable that imprinted on him a strange gentleness.

"But I need you tell me the truth," he then produced the known yellow sheet and showed it to her, "do you know this woman?"

Azelma had grown confident seemingly convinced that Javert was not there to take her away. She took the paper in her hands and stared at it, smoothing the wrinkles. Her gaze flicked back to Javert and then to Valjean who stood by his side. He showed her a small, kind smile. "Is that the woman you told me about?"

Azelma nodded. "Yes. That's her. She's Marianne."

"Marianne?" Javert looked at Valjean. "She told you this."

"She told me that she knew this Marianne Vallée having seen her several times around the quartier we found her. She told me that this woman was with a man called Montparnasse."

Javert's eyes widened, "Montparnasse?!"

It should be remembered that although Thénardier repeated this name countless times when he had Valjean tied down to a bed all those months ago, Valjean had no recollection of having heard it, his senses engaged elsewhere. And so, Javert's shock, Javert's wide, roaring eyes, meant nothing to him.

The Inspector returned to Azelma, "Montparnasse? What do you know of Montparnasse? He was an associate of your father, that much I know. What is he to this woman? And where is he? Do you know where he is? He vanished after your father escaped prison, we don't know where he is. Do you know where he is?"

He spoke fast, frantically, leaning into the bed, towards her, towering over her. Azelma brought the covers to her chin and shot a desperate glance at Valjean. The older man touched Javert's arm who jerked it away, "Answer me, girl."

"Javert, calm yourself, you're scaring her" Valjean told him coldly. "You will achieve nothing with this."

The inspector straightened and glared angrily at Valjean. "Very well. But tell me girl, what do you know of this man?" he demanded, "he is dangerous, you know?"

"Yes, sir. I know that well."

"Who was this woman?" Javert asked, "How do you know her?"

"I saw her sometimes in the quartier san Marceau. My father used to tell my sister to go there."

"Your sister?"

"Yes."

"Where is your sister?"

"She died at the barricades, I think."

"Was she a whore?" Javert inquired nonchalantly.

"Javert!" Valjean exclaimed.

"What?" He stared fixedly at Valjean, "if her sister could be found at night in quartier San Marceau and if she says she was often in the company of the dead prostitute we found it is only a logical conclusion."

"Yes but…" Valjean started but Azelma finished

"She was sometimes, Monsieur. We didn't have much money and when we needed to eat my father told 'Ponine to go and…" She trailed off, blushing deeply in shame. "She didn't like it but she had to, please Monsieur, my sister, she was good, she was so smart, she was not like me. I'm not you see, I'm stupid, I always was but she was so brave, she was not like me."

Javert whipped his head to her but by then Valjean had already kneeled next to her as he had done before, in that comforting manner that unsettled Javert who was not used to such displays. "Hush, Azelma. You are not stupid, not at all. And you are right. Your sister was very brave."

The inspector stepped away from the bed to the window, crossing his arms again, diverting his gaze to the quiet street. "So, Marianne Vallée knew Montparnasse. Monsieur Fauchelevent here says that she was with him. What does that mean? Did she work for him? Or under him?"

Valjean almost winced at Javert's crudeness. "I didn't know you could be so vulgar."

"You don't know much about me" Javert bit back, tempted to add more. His gaze shone tauntingly and Valjean could see it reflected on the window's glass.

"I suppose so, Monsieur, but I could not be sure" said Azelma.

"Let's assume so" Javert muttered to himself, "for the sake of the argument. Let's assume they were together, that they were an item, or even that she worked for him, or gave him the products of her service. They were close. It is the only clue I have and it is the only worth following."

His musing over, his decision taken, he spun around to face the other occupants of the room. "What more can you tell me about her? Where does she live?"

"Not much more, sir. I only know her name. I only saw her sometimes… Éponine might have known her better, I don't know."

"Unfortunately, your sister is not in a position of to help me."

Valjean closed his eyes momentarily.

Azelma on her side didn't know how to answer so she remained silent. Javert pursed his lips. "There is no point in asking the other women" he said, "they have lied until now, they will continue to lie. They know this, they know the girl was Montparnasse's lover or personal who…" He stopped himself when he saw Valjean's warning glare, "friend. That is why they wouldn't tell me who she was." He paused. "Even so, perhaps we should ask them."

Javert and Valjean exchanged a look. "Monsieur Fauchelevent, a word with you."

The Inspector marched out, not before retrieving his hat, and telling Azelma, "You were an important help, mademoiselle. Thank you."

She couldn't react in time; as soon as she found her voice, Javert had left the room with an even more bewildered Valjean following him. "You thanked her" he said, as soon as he closed the door.

"She helped."

"Will you thank me too?" The older man asked, with a small, mocking smile.

Javert took two steps towards Valjean, placing his hand on his chest pushing him against the wall. The hallway was dark, too dark, and when Javert's visage approached his, it was like a tiger was jumping onto him coming from the depths of the wilderness.

"Listen to me." Javert kept his voice a whisper, which made him altogether more frightening. "You have conditions but I have them as well, otherwise I will break the promise I made to a convict. First, you will always follow my orders. If I tell you to come with me, or to do something, you do it, if I tell you to stay put, or to go away, you will obey me. Secondly, you will not talk to witnesses unless I give you permission. Thirdly, I will call you, I will go to you. You will not come to me, you will not look for me. You will do nothing without my permission."

Valjean showed no signs of fear, and if he felt it he kept it hidden. He merely bore Javert's grip on his chest, his vicious stare and his heated breath that smelled of mint and tobacco. He calmly murmured, "As you wish, Inspector. But you have a mission for me already, no?"

Javert let go of his shirt and straightened his back, looking down at him. "Yes. I want you to go back to do what you were doing that night I caught you. Talk with the women. Ask them about Marianne. See what they have to say. I doubt they will disclose much more but you may have a point when you say they will talk easily with a civilian than with a policeman. Especially if the civilian gives them money."

The corner of Jean Valjean's lips twitched. "Very well, Inspector."

"And try not to get seduced this time. God knows you would refuse them nothing" And it was his turn to smirk when a faint red blush spread through Valjean's cheeks.

* * *

He sat down in the corner of the tavern. Pére Borbot was a middle age man who had been married when he was very young only to have lost his wife to typhus. Claiming to be too heartbroken to remarry again, Pére Borbot travelled to England where he lived for fifteen years. When he returned, he had brought a Scottish mistress and ale. This tavern indeed, was much more an English pub than a French tavern. His ale was better than those served in England for he had innovated: by adding a few lemon drops, he produced a new recipe.

Javert liked ale. It was in fact the only alcoholic drink he could tolerate. Wine was too warm. Ale was fresh though he had little idea how Borbot managed to keep it so cool. It ran smoothly down his throat, against his warm neck, warmed by his cravat and the hot August night.

Philippe entered running his hand through his blondish hair. It was a habit, Javert knew, he did it frequently when he was nervous. As a result his hair was always disheveled, light curls falling over his forehead. It made him more handsome, Javert thought, in a boyish sort of way that a forty old man should no longer possess.

He pulled a chair and sank on it, dejectedly. "Good evening," Philippe greeted, "I need alcohol."

"Bad day?"

"Terrible day. Things at the Prefecture are chaotic"

Javert signed to Pére Borbot, raising his cup and asking for one more. "So?" Javert was waiting.

"Gisquet and Vidocq are arguing as an old bickering couple. See, you know Vidocq doesn't even work in Rue de Jérusalem but he spends half of his day in the Prefecture anyway. Yesterday, Allard and myself were supposed to report to him and we stayed outside his office for about an hour hearing them argue. God in Heavens, if I didn't know that Vidocq used to bed every woman that moved and that Gisquet is a prudish craven I would say they desperately want to fuck each other over a desk."

"I don't know which would benefit more from that arrangement," Javert said, grinning.

"Gisquet. He needs a woman. Desperately."

"Isn't he married?"

"I don't think that is helping." Borbot brought Philippe his ale and he brought it eagerly to his lips, almost emptying the cup in only one swig.

"Will Vidocq leave?" Javert asked seriously after a moment of laughter, observing Philippe wiping his mouth on his handkerchief.

"I don't know. But he's taking too much of Gisquet's time and no other cases get through. I have a pile of reports to discuss with his officers but none can give me an answer without consulting the Prefect. But the Prefect is busy! And with whom? Eugène Vidocq, of course!"

"Peace, man. Drink slower or you'll choke."

"You can't imagine how much work the Prefecture has piled up because of this."

"It will get better. They have to sort it out eventually" Javert said practically, "can't stay like this forever"

"I don't know. It has been like this since the rebellion, since Vidocq and his friends decided to go all hard on the students. The idiot. Prides himself of being merciful and then decides to go all Louis XIV on them? They were just kids for God's sake."

His fingers passed again through his hair. He gestured to request another drink. Javert reached and grasped his hand when it was about to fall onto the table again. "Don't drink too much."

"Don't worry."

"Unfortunately, I don't have a choice."

Philippe smiled ruefully at him, "I'm sorry. That you feel responsible for me. But I'm a grown man despite what you might think," he winked. But he was quick to add, with a change of tone. "And you need my assistance once more, I see."

"Yes" Javert answered simply and he leaned forward. "I have a new lead on the prostitutes' case."

Philippe blew a puff of air out of his mouth. "Are you still on that? For God's sake man…"

"I know the third woman's name. She was Montparnasse's lover."

"What?" Philippe's whole demeanor changed suddenly. His face darkened as though a shadow had settled upon his face.

"Yes. Her name is Marianne and I know she was connected with him in an intimate manner."

Philippe met his eyes. "How do you know this?" his voice was quiet.

"I just know. I have my sources."

"Be careful, Javert"

"I know Vidocq and his thieves are looking for them. Montparnasse and his boys. They have been searching for them since they escaped. Well, Jondrette has disappeared from Paris but I've reported this already…"

"Javert" Philippe interrupted, huskily, "how on Earth do you know these things?"

The inspector merely stared. "Can you talk with Vidocq?" he asked finally, "I want to be part of the operations, if they are found. I have my informants, I can help too."

"Why don't you talk to him?"

"I don't talk with Vidocq"

"You will have to, if he accepts your help."

"I will decide what to do then,"

"I won't be your homing pigeon!"

"Just this once. Come on, if he accepts my help I'll talk with him" Javert told him, calmly.

"You know," Philippe said before taking the cup to his mouth, "you two are more alike than you think."

Javert snorted and asked for another refill.

* * *

"Inspector?" Toussaint frowned as she gazed upon him. And upon the boxes he was carrying. "Do you…do you need help?"

"Where is Monsieur Fauchelevent?" His voice was urgent.

"In the parlour."

He looked pointedly at her. She stepped away quickly, snapping out of her reverie, and led him there hurriedly, while asking if he wanted tea or coffee. She opened the door and he marched on in a manner that indicated he had no time to lose. Valjean was quietly reading a book which was forgotten as soon as he laid his eyes on him.

"Javert!" He exclaimed standing up so fast he got dizzy. "What…"

"I will take that coffee, after all" he told the elderly woman, hoping she would leave the room. She looked at Valjean who nodded briefly although all his attention was on the inspector. Javert placed the boxes on the table with a loud thump, knocking down a flower arrangement. Valjean was so disconcerted by the abrupt invasion that he didn't even remember the hours he had spent doing the said arrangement that had now been ruined by the inspector's carelessness.

"What are you doing here?" He asked more out of curious astonishment than anger or annoyance.

Javert's eyes roamed his figure, taking notice of Valjean's impeccable attire far too neat for an afternoon spent at home. "Where are you going?"

"One of us should answer questions" Valjean said half jokingly but was only met with a skeptical glance. "You are the one who barged into my house."

"Yes, but I'm the policeman here."

If Valjean didn't know better he would almost say that Javert had cracked a joke. He smiled a little, only a little but his next words made the smile vanish. "I am going with my daughter to see Marius Pontmercy. She is getting ready."

"The boy."

"Yes. The boy."

Valjean bowed his head. Javert advanced towards him, "I brought you work" he told him quickly.

"Oh?" Valjean took a small step forward to get a closer look at the boxes.

"In these boxes," Javert withdrew a few steps to place a hand on them, "are all the station processes dating from 1830. After the Revolution that is. It is as far as it goes. Well, I can't guarantee that they're all here, organization isn't exactly our forte, especially not when Béranger's in charge. But in any case, I hope you can find what I want. I told them that I would be taking these home to study them. I did take them home, only not mine. So technically I didn't lie." The smile returned to Valjean's face. Javert didn't see it. "Anyway, I want you to look at them. I suppose you still haven't had the time to go to the streets to inquire about the woman; it is no matter. I don't think they'll tell you anything. It's more a formality, so we can say we cleared all the chances, plus it is most amusing to see you waste money on those women without accepting their services…"

"Javert…" Valjean started but Javert ignored him.

"But here, here perhaps we can find some reference to her. Perhaps she stole something, or perhaps she had a brawl with someone, or perhaps she was kicked out of house or something like that. With some luck there might be a case or an occurrence with her. So, what I want you to do is to go through all these files and search for a mention. Marianne Vallée, that's her name."

"I know" Valjean said softly, "I can't do it now, however. I promised Cosette I would go with her."

"I'm not expecting you to do this now. But don't get too lazy."

Valjean didn't reply. As for Javert, now that the task was done and that he had put up his show, it was time to leave. As always, when his purpose was fulfilled to stand near Valjean was almost painful. "I ought to be going."

"Will you not stay for coffee?" Valjean blurted before he could stop himself. Javert's eyebrows twitched.

"I have to return to the station," he answered neutrally. "I have work to do."

The older man lowered his eyes. "Of course" and he closed his fists.

Javert saw all these motions with a hawk eye. He hesitated taking one step in the direction of the door and then stopped himself. Finally, he told him "You saved the boy because of the girl. She's going to be happy. The boy seems to be wealthy though I suspect money isn't a problem to you. There is no reason for you to be miserable." Javert spoke these words unknowingly, perhaps with the insensitivity of one who was not used to feelings and who did not understand them. At least, this was what Valjean thought. The words could be meant to reassure but the inspector uttered them as a simple statement of a fact. This angered Valjean. Or, perhaps, whispered darkly a voice in the back of his head, it angered him that Javert had so easily seen what everyone else, including Cosette, had yet to realize. And, of course, what Valjean endeavored to hide.

"I don't expect you to understand," he said almost petulantly.

Javert merely raised his eyebrows and slowly pursed his lips. "No," he replied calmly, "in that you are right." The inspector turned around and opened the door, "send me a note if or when you find something."

Valjean had the sudden wish of calling him back, of stopping him from leaving. The truth was he didn't want to visit Marius. He didn't want to see Cosette with him. A part of him wanted Cosette to be happy. That part knew that she would only be happy with the boy. But another part, another part desperately wanted Cosette to remain with him. And it was that part that was presently crying out for the inspector.

But he didn't. Javert obviously wanted to leave and Valjean had no justification to ask him to stay after having snapped at him. He heard the inspector saying something to Toussaint in the hallway and he fell back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

* * *

Javert had undressed himself and put on his customary night shirt. He was dying to fall in bed, to sleep and rest. There is no doubt in our minds that during these days, which were the hardest of the inspector's life, had he been inclined to drink he would have been became an alcoholic. Instead, as we have said, he worked and slept.

Only when he was pulling the covers down, he heard a light knock on the door. Javert frowned, unmoving, cursing his luck. But there it was again, after half a minute. It was not strong enough to be a man's knock. Perhaps a woman, perhaps his landlady. He opened the door, cautiously, between frustration and curiosity.

It was a gamin, a boy with dirt on his face and a cheeky smile on his lips. "I've been told to give' ya this."

He was handing him a note. He thrust it into his hand before Javert could form a sentence. When he lifted his eyes to the child, he had vanished. The Inspector didn't trouble himself but resumed to unfold the paper which read, with a flowery handwriting:

_You like the ale from Pére Borbot. _

_Tomorrow, then, you shall buy me a cup. _

_E.F.V_


	7. All men must serve

**First, as always, I would like to thank everyone for the reviews and alerts. You guys are awesome.  
**

**Also, this chapter had to be cut in half so this is the first part. I will update the second in a few days. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Valjean missed Rue Plumet. He missed his little cottage in the backyard; he missed the garden, the flowers and the trees. Even in M-sur-Mer he had a small garden in the back of his house. It was not within his nature to be confined inside a small apartment where the light, even during the summer seemed dimmer and dimmer. When he had been planning on escaping to England, Valjean had indulged in thoughts of green fields that never ended and cold rain and the smell of fresh earth.

Now this was no more. Now he was living in a small apartment with Cosette who was soon to leave him to marry the boy. They had visited Marius Pontmercy in Rue de Filles du Calvaire five or six times in the last two weeks, although Valjean had lost count of the occasions they had seen him since the boy had been rescued for Cosette's desire was to be with him, coaxing him to life with her smiles, her careful touches, her sweet, soft words.

She had sent him notes mere days after the fall of the barricades. She had convinced Valjean to go to Marius's house to inquire after him. He obeyed for he could deny her nothing. She went for him after the boy's grandfather gave his blessing.

She had been there when he managed to lean against the pillows. She had been there when he dared to place his feet on the floor. Valjean who had stood by the doorstep watching them, witnessing Marius's smile and Cosette's eyes lightening up in a way she never did with him. And he understood then that no matter how much Cosette cared for him she would never love him as she loved that young man.

This realization attacked him and suffocated him and when they reached Rue de L'Homme Armée he locked himself in his bedchamber and left Cosette to share her stories and feelings with Azelma. He was thankful for the younger girl's presence: Valjean was not certain he could bear to hear his daughter praise the man she loved.

The only consolation he found in the whole affair was that Marius had not recognized him. They had exchanged brief words when he first woke up all those weeks ago and some polite compliments after that and although the boy gazed upon him with an odd frown, Valjean was certain he had forgotten the events of the barricade. _Thank God for that at least._

She was to marry and build a family. The formal propose had been made by the mouth of Monsieur Gillenormand in the presence of the couple and of Valjean himself. Valjean gave his blessing by giving them money for in truth he could do little else.

They would have children. She would have a name. She would need a name, it occurred him suddenly. Marius's grandfather, with whom Valjean had had brief conversations, was a good man but not stupid or naïve like his younger grandson. If Marius wanted to marry Cosette she would have to have a history. Preferably, a story that did not connect her to former convicts and a mother who had been forced to sell her body to survive.

Valjean paced.

He did not attend dinner with the two girls and chased away sleep. Cosette was not his daughter and he did not have any claim over her. These damming words resounded in his brain, tore his heart apart and made him want to fall to his knees. But he reached the inevitable truth eventually: he was nothing to Cosette. Their life resembled a dream but he was close to awakening. He could not continue to pretend that they remained in their little, small world where the real life didn't affect them. As all men who run from who they are, Jean Valjean was deeply aware that he would be caught eventually and the price to pay this time would not be the rack and the lash, but his daughter.

When the first lights of dawn threatened to invade his bedroom, Valjean sat down at his desk and started to write. When he was finished, he kneeled and pulled Javert's boxes from beneath the bed. He landed on the floor like a child playing with his toys and read.

* * *

Valjean knew little of Javert's daily routines but one thing he was certain: the Inspector arrived home very late, so late it bordered the improperness had Valjean been a man who realized such things. He had left home after dinner and had walked all the way to Javert's house and still when he knocked to the inspector's door he was met with silence. The whole building seemed to be sleeping already. Even the odd loud boys that lived in the apartment bellow were quiet.

With no other remedy, Valjean decided to wait, sliding down to the floor, back propped against the wall, knees against chest. If Cosette hadn't been his main concern during those days (and we might even say his obsession), Valjean would have worried for the inspector. But it didn't even occurred to him that Javert could be in danger. For him, Javert would be coming home later or earlier and he would be waiting. Javert was not susceptible to danger, somehow. Nothing could kill him, nothing but himself.

_And myself_, Valjean thought hazily.

He was almost dozing off when he felt the Inspector's unmistakable step on the stairs. "Wake up Valjean. I don't need a former convict sleeping at my door," Valjean's eyes fluttered open. When he looked up Javert was standing in front of him, holding the door. "The least you can do is come in".

The older man staggered to his feet and followed Javert, rubbing his eyes. "It's very late," he commented without thinking.

"And yet you're here" Javert replied. Paying no attention to Valjean, he put a kettle on the fire and took off his greatcoat. He hung it methodically and slid off his cravat from his neck before folding it carefully.

Valjean observed him motionless. He had not yet advanced further into the flat, torn between following Javert's actions and staring at his feet. His hands were playing with one of those old files that the Inspector had lent him. He was nervous. Valjean almost laughed at the thought. Even after all these years, even after Javert's promise (that he was certain the inspector would abide to for he never told a lie) the inspector was still the only man on the face of the Earth that managed to make him fidgety.

"I have discovered something that might interest you" he said finally. Javert stopped and eyed him attentively, trying to see through him.

Javert opened his cupboard and placed two cups on the table. The kettle was singing in the stove. "I can't drink coffee at this hour or I won't sleep. And I can't really waste it, not during this time of month. I must have tea leaves somewhere" he stuck his head inside the cupboard. "I should have it at least Madame Lemonard gave them to me weeks ago. I swear, this house is so small and yet things keep vanishing" his voice came out muffled and Valjean frowned when he asked, "for God's sake can you take the kettle out before we wake up the whole building?"

Valjean did so without letting go of the file. Using a rag he found on the counter he placed the steaming kettle carefully next to the cups. "Aha!" he heard Javert utter triumphantly. "Here they are."

Valjean was still standing. Javert pulled a chair and sank down on it. "I think it is polite of me to offer you a cup of tea. And I believe it would be polite of you to accept it and sit down."

He sighed but acquiesced a second later. "I have discovered something that will interest you…"

"I heard you the first time" Javert said, preparing the tea. "That's one of my files."

"It's from 1831…March, I think. There's a reference to the girl. Marianne. And to you." He added.

"What?"

"Yes." Valjean retrieved a half written page and shows it to Javert. "There was a brawl. She attacked a man…a client, apparently." Valjean's voice became lower and lower. "And they were arrested. You were the one who arrested them." This last sentence was uttered as a quiet murmur. Javert didn't seem to notice, he was reading the report having recognized Cluzet's handwriting.

"I have little recollection of this."

"Of course," Valjean whispered. He hoped for an instant Javert hadn't heard him but of course he did.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Valjean opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Then he swallowed. "The scene is simply too familiar, that's all."

Javert's jaw clenched. It was not a good sign. The older man wished Javert would drink his tea and not stare at him with that furious light in his eyes. "I'm not forcing you to be here" he said.

"I know" Valjean answered.

"I don't even want you here."

"I know."

Valjean held his gaze. Javert didn't divert his eyes from him for an interminable moment. Finally, he returned his attention to the paper. "She only spent a night in jail. It says here that someone tended to her wounds."

"Yes."

"It must have been Michel. The boy always wanted to be a doctor." Javert finished reading. "There's an address here…we just have to know if it's fake or not."

"Do you want me to go there?" Valjean asked and he prayed his tone wouldn't sound too apologetic.

Javert was about to refuse but thought better. "Yes. I don't have the time now I'm…going after something else. Go there but don't tell them you're the police. The less lies you tell the better. See if she has any family, if she doesn't, and if she really lived there ask the landlady or the portress. They always know what happens in their neighborhood." He paused. "Ask for her life story. Where she came from, who was she, how was she like. We need to establish a connection to the other women. Ask if she had any visitors. If any man visited her with frequency. If she had any close friends. If yes, I want a description of them."

Valjean nodded. "I have talked with some of the other women as you told me…but although I handed them some money, they all avoided my questions. They claim they don't know Marianne."

"If Montparnasse really is involved in this business, that doesn't surprise me in the least."

Valjean bit down his lip, thinking about what the inspector had just instructed him to do. "I will attend to this as fast as I can."

Javert emptied his cup. "It's late." He said. "I need to sleep."

Valjean understood. He left his unfinished tea and stood, taking the file with him. "I'm sorry to have kept you, Inspector. Have a good night" he added softly

"Be careful, Valjean." Their eyes met. "It's very late and the streets aren't that safe. Not even for a man of your…physical condition."

* * *

Valjean returned to Javert's flat two days later at the same ungodly hour with the results of his investigation. Had Valjean been a vain man he would have been proud of his achievements. In only 48 hours he discovered everything the inspector had asked him and he felt confident enough to return to the man's house. He had decided that it would be useless to visit him earlier for he would only be forced to sit in the corridor floor while waiting for him.

He was wrong.

When he reached the apartment and gave a hopeless knock on the door a voice cried from inside, "it opens!"

Valjean entered. The inspector was leaning over the table with his back turned to him. He looked over his shoulder, recognition lightening his eyes. "It's you." He sounded surprised. When he spun around to face him wholly, Valjean raised his eyebrows.

Javert was not wearing his customary greatcoat or his strict, overly tight cravat. He had not even a vest on him. He was dressed merely in a white shirt which furthermore was unbuttoned at the top and a dark blue coat that matched his trousers. A closer examination told Valjean that the coat likely did not belong to him; it was too small.

In fact, although he was still taller than the average man this attire made him look almost ordinary and not at all like the formidable inspector he was used to.

"You have seen me in nothing but a nightshirt but this is what surprises you?" Javert asked gesturing to his figure, putting a mocking emphasis on the "this".

"It's not the state of undress that astonishes me." Valjean said. "But as to why you are so casual. You look like…a worker." _An ordinary man and not someone who tried to arrest me, not the haughty police inspector who yelled at a dying woman._ But this went unsaid.

"I hope so." Javert turned around again. Only then Valjean caught a glimpse of the objects lying on the table. Two pistols, some papers filled with notes and a map of Paris. Valjean pressed his lips together.

Javert unloaded one of the guns and threw carelessly the bullets onto the table.

"Where are you going?" He inquired and his eyes widened when Javert roughly placed the same pistol on his belt. "Why are you taking that?"

"I'm going out."

"Where?"

"Police business."

"Is it dangerous?" he asked after a moment.

Javert paused and looked at him. "It might be." His eyes narrowed. "I'm a policeman, I do more than sitting around filling reports and questioning prostitutes."

Valjean blinked several times. He knew Javert did his share of undercover work. He still remembered when the man dressed up as a beggar to spy on him and his actions at the barricade would fall into that category as well, although on that occasion he hadn't been so successful.

"Do you need help?"

"No." Javert's answer was automatic as though he had been expecting it.

"Are you certain? It is dangerous, you said it yourself. Are you going alone?"

"Cease your questions." Javert ordered without facing him. "Just because I allow you to help me doesn't mean you have to meddle in every aspect of my work."

"But…" Valjean started again, "if you are going alone I can help you. I can stay in the back and I will just wait for you to call me if you need me."

Javert exhaled breath. "Valjean, you don't even know where I'm going. Go home. Go to your daughter."

"But…"

"What are you doing here after all?" Javert barked, "don't you have anything better to do?"

"I did what you asked me" the older man explained slowly. "I gathered some more information on Marianne Vallée. I don't know if it's going to help you but at least we can cross what I learned with what we have on the other women."

"We can discuss that some other day."

"That means I'll see you again?" Valjean asked quietly.

The inspector rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic." He took his time to turn around to look Jean Valjean in the eyes and added, lowering his voice. "I am confident you will."

"Like you were in the barricades?"

Javert scowled. "You know nothing about that."

"You have a tendency to put yourself at risk that much is evident." Valjean argued, "I did not save your life for you to waste it in a fool's errand."

Javert temper flared. "You don't know what I'm going to do! And don't you dare to hold me accountable for something I never asked!"

This time, unlike the others before, Valjean didn't recoil. "Are you going alone?"

"Go away, Valjean. Come here tomorrow, we will talk then."

"I can lend you my assistance…"

Javert's exasperated fist made contact with the table. "Go away man! What did you promise me? What did I make you promise? You obey my orders and my order is for you to go away. Otherwise our little agreement ends here and now."

Valjean struggled to come up with an answer but after a moment of hesitation where words of spite almost slipped from his mouth, he realized that any attempt to contradict the inspector would be futile. Javert's expression was fierce but determined, a resolution that demanded no questions that bore no doubts. Valjean clenched his fists and jaw, grinding his teeth but nodded. He left the inspector's house like a soldier leaving the office of his commander in chief.

* * *

But Jean Valjean had in his blood the fever of disobedience. This was the man who broke into people's house to give them money; the worker who gave alms. The man who willingly handed his purse to a robber who tried to assault him. He was also the man who broke parole and who lied to an entire town about his identity. Valjean, although not aware of the consistency of his behaviour, would never let the Inspector go on to what he had decided must be a suicidal mission (Javert hadn't even loaded his gun!) without help.

He decided to follow him, praying the Inspector would be faithful to his habits and not call a cab. Furthermore, he did not quite trust his spying abilities. He could go unnoticed in a crowd but it was a whole different matter to walk the streets of Paris after dark, hunting a man's steps. That was Javert's part not his, he thought wryly.

Javert did not call a fiacre and even if he had wanted there were no cabs on that part of the town at that hour; and as they both travelled South, Javert with his quick, decided step, Valjean following him quietly in the shadows he could find, less and less buildings and lamps were found.

Civilization stayed behind as they reached the Cemitére du sur. To Valjean's surprise, they entered the cemetery. Had he been a man disposed to fear Valjean would have found this experience gruesome and frightening. But nothing evil could come of those already dead, he knew and felt more at ease than that he had felt before while travelling through the labyrinthine streets of the Observatoire. Javert walked past the graveyards without paying attention to his surroundings. He noticed it in his step. He could have been in Jardin de Luxembourg. Valjean was certain his attitude would have been the same.

Javert headed to the end of the Cemetery to a small exit that had been roughly built in one of the walls. Valjean watched him bend and cross it and waited a few more moments until he mimicked his actions.

Only then did Valjean realize that they had left the old city walks behind. In front of them, there was a green meadow field. Green during the day, dark and startling during the night. Valjean did not know this place but he imagined that in the daylight it would be as beautiful as the fields he used to visit with Cosette. Where they saw that chain gang a year ago.

Some houses and even a couple of small buildings could be found dispersed in the fields. At a distance they offered them some light. Valjean could see that Javert was now walking down the road very far from him. The older man could barely keep up but he had nowhere to hide and to approach him further would cause the inspector to become aware of his presence.

Eventually, after an hour or perhaps more of walking (Valjean never had a good notion of time) the inspector stopped in front of a set of trees that opened the way to a small house, not unlike the others they had met while making their way. It was small, more like a large box where people would live. It couldn't have more than one or two divisions.

Javert approached it. His step was now less sure, more cautious. His strides were shorter. Valjean waited and saw him bend his large frame and tread to the back of the house. After a minute he followed.

Valjean was cornering the house, peeking to see if Javert was there, when he felt a hand pull him. He was ready to yelp but another hand was placed on his mouth stifling the sound that left his lips. They fell to the ground and his back sagged against the man's chest. "Be quiet, you idiot". The voice was as unmistakable as the rest of him. It was Javert.

His arm wound up around his chest while the hand had not yet left his mouth. "What are you doing here Valjean?" He whispered angrily against his ear. "I told you leave me alone, damn you."

Valjean didn't struggle, merely waiting for Javert to finish his tantrum. "I'm going to retrieve my hand." When he did so his grip loosened and Valjean freed himself. Squatting, he faced him.

"You told me to go away. You never said I couldn't follow you." It was a poor excuse and Valjean knew he would never be rid of Javert's anger on the account of a poorly made up technicality.

Javert pursed his lips. "You idiot. Go away now."

"No. You are here alone. There's no one else. What are you doing here?"

"Nothing."

"Are you spying on this house?" Valjean husked back.

"What if I am? Go away, Valjean, please." Javert kept his tone leveled but the anger was clear in his face. Had Valjean been able to observe him better, however, he would have seen not only anger but frustration and urgency.

"No. I am here now. At least I can help you. If only you told me what you are to do…"

"No!" Javert said a bit louder than he should. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as a man waiting for an explosion that didn't come. "Damn." He whispered to himself. Neither spoke for the longest of moments. Only then Valjean heard that there were more voices coming from inside the house.

"Go away, Valjean. Go while you still can."

Jean Valjean was about to open his mouth to inquire after the man's uneasiness. But he did not. Behind Javert a door was opened and two figures made their appearance. One of them held an oil lamp. The other, a pistol.


	8. All men must die

They were searched and then tied back to chairs that were propped against the wall. They took Javert's pistol and Valjean's wallet. Javert threw a look at Valjean that said, "I told you not to meddle, you disobeyed and now we're here". Valjean was not certain how the inspector managed to convey so many words in only one look but he was silently forced to agree with him.

"What are you doing here, Javert? How did you find us? How did you know?" Growled the thinner man who had been tying up Valjean to the back of his chair.

Javert smiled at the man. "Hello Babet. I am glad to you see in good health."

Valjean's head snapped to Javert so fast it almost cracked.

"Very nice house you have here. Very quiet. You must have no problems with the neighbors."

Babet played with Javert's pistol, twirling it between his fingers. He had thrown his own gun onto a table and seemed to have taken a great pride in possessing Javert's. "You haven't answered my question, Inspector."

Javert ignored him. His eyes moved to the other three men in the room. "Well that is Gueulemer, I would have recognized you anywhere," he gave the man whom Valjean immediately associated with one very large bull a curt nod. "And that is Brujon. He joined the Patron-Minette now? Yes, I know your group was tragically reduced when Claquesous died but that is no reason to resort to such extreme measures." Once more his head jerked towards Brujon who hadn't quite comprehended Javert's dry remark.

Javert's gaze landed on a blonde man sitting on the large table placed at the other end of the room. "But you…I don't know you."

He diverted his eyes to his tankard and no more looked in the Inspector's direction. Babet blew air out of his mouth, pointing the gun at Javert pressing the barrel against his cheek. Valjean sucked in a breath of terrified anticipation. "Listen to me or I will ask Gueulemer to make you!"

"Now, now Babet," spoke a velvety voice from behind them, "that is no way to treat our guest."

Valjean thanked the Lord for this sudden appearance whoever it was. When those words were uttered the lean man who had been aiming at Javert stepped away and the gun went with him. The one who came forward was not unknown to Valjean although he had to make an effort to remember why he was so familiar. He could barely be called a man, in fact. More like a boy. Tall, handsome, with a thin waist but broader shoulders and dark hair with darker locks falling onto his forehead.

It hit him when Montparnasse reached them and his perfumed scent filled his nostrils.

This boy had tried to rob Valjean. In return, Valjean had immobilized and lectured him and then had willingly given him his purse. Apparently, Valjean thought dismayingly, he had not followed the advice he had offered him on that occasion.

He spared him no more than a glance. Indeed, all his attention was on Javert.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Inspector." Valjean saw a pistol on the boy's belt. "And you look fine."

"I could say the same thing about you, Montparnasse," Javert said. His voice, however, carried an alluring tone that did go unnoticed to Valjean. He frowned. "Hiding away suits you."

The boy smiled and took another two steps towards them. "It is awfully boring, I'm afraid. I have been missing you terribly inspector."

Javert merely returned the smile. Montparnasse added, "Have you been missing me too?"

"You are unforgettable."

Montparnasse's gazed finally met Valjean's. "And who is your friend?"

"He is an associate," Javert answered with the same light-headed voice that infuriated and unnerved Valjean. It as though the Inspector had failed to realize that they were tied up to chairs with ill meaning men pointing threatening guns at them. As though he hadn't had a pistol pressed against his cheek merely two minutes ago.

"An associate?" Montparnasse puckered his eyebrows. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Valjean nodded serenely. "You tried to rob me from my purse a few months ago. I gave it to you willingly after that."

Javert made a grimace of disbelief, turning his head to him. He mouthed, "are you serious?"

"Ah! I remember you! I thought you were a fool. Do you employ fools now, Inspector?"

Javert, barely recovered from his shock (although, he considered dryly, this was exactly what the blasted man would do when assaulted) answered quitting his staring at Valjean, "he has other uses."

"Oh?" Montparnasse's eyes found the inspector's. "I am curious now. Considering the idiots that usually accompany you I would think you d'prefer to work alone."

"I can open exceptions," he replied, "occasionally."

The boy bent towards the Inspector. He stopped midway and decided to kneel instead. "And why him?"

Javert snorted. "He's not as incompetent as the others."

Montparnasse laughed, watching him cunningly. "Somehow, I don't doubt that. Tell me now, why are you visiting us? How did you find us? We have been behaving. More or less."

"I have my ways."

Montparnasse nodded gravely. "Yes…and alas, I fear you won't disclose them."

"Alas," Javert declared. They stared at each other.

"Oh come now, inspector," Montparnasse murmured softly, "I know you are a man dedicated to your duty. We all know that. But surely we could reach an agreement here."

"I highly doubt. As a general rule, I tend not to associate with criminals."

Valjean made an effort to keep himself from cringing.

"Oh but we would be more than simply associates. You and I are very alike, inspector. Only I put my abilities to better uses."

"Maybe. But I hear prison is a rather unpleasant place."

Montparnasse was observing him with great care. "You are a mystery, inspector. I like that. No one has known you a wife or a mistress. Do you even have friends? Something apart from your work, which by the way, seems a great bore. I mean, one would think you would have other distractions. Are you made of ice or stone Inspector?" He added then in an afterthought, "and you cut a fine figure after all."

The boy raised his hand and placed two fingers on Javert's forehead. They descended slowly to the bridge of the inspector's nose and finally landed on his lips. "Have you ever kissed someone?"

Javert didn't move. When he opened his mouth to speak, he ignored the fingers on the curve of his lips, "enough about me, I think. Let's talk about you. Did Marianne Vallée kiss you?" He caught the man off guard. Montparnasse's eyes widened slightly and he retrieved his hand.

"Ah! You know about her. You do not have to be jealous, Monsieur. I am enough for two…or more." Javert however, didn't say a word until he added, "she did a bit more than that."

Javert raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"

Montparnasse relaxed again. "Oh, yes." His hand returned. This time not to his face but to his chest. Once more, Valjean watched two fingers at the middle of Javert's chest. Now, they travelled upwards, placing themselves on the inch of skin that was visible. Valjean saw his nails pressing down, hard, so hard it would leave a mark. But Javert didn't even flinch. In fact, he never diverted his eyes from the boy's.

"Pity you won't enjoy those affections anymore. She's dead."

Montparnasse's hand fell to his side. "Dead?" He uttered. For the first time that night the boy wasn't able to recover.

Javert was now regarding him attentively. If he hadn't been tied down Valjean was certain he would have jumped forward. "Yes, killed, to be more precise. She was murdered."

Montparnasse's eyes narrowed. It was accompanied by a frown. "I did not know that," he abandoned the velvety and turned to steel. "Is that why you're here inspector?"

"Oh I'm here to see you. Haven't we established that?" Valjean could hardly believe Javert's voice. It was soft and provocative at the same time and he wondered what game was he playing at.

This time Montparnasse's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But you seem so interested in my dead friend."

"Aren't you?" Javert replied. "She was your friend, after all."

"Friends come and go."

"Unfortunately for her."

"You are starting to grow dull, Inspector," Montparnasse whispered. "I don't like that," they were at the same level and he leaned forward. "And you didn't answer my question."

"I didn't?"

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

Javert didn't answer. His lips were parted as though he wanted to speak and it was all too easy for Montparnasse to leap forward and capture his lower lip between his teeth. This time Javert flinched. Valjean made an ungodly effort not to struggle.

Montparnasse's tongue caressed the lower lip before sinking his teeth deep into the sensible skin. The inspector's lip started to bleed. Javert kept himself in check and didn't tremble.

The other men started to laugh, throwing bawdy words at them.

It was a test, Valjean realized suddenly. Javert couldn't possibly be enjoying this. His gaze flicked to the back of Javert's chair, to his hands that were clenched tightly.

Valjean intensified his movements. We are aware of Jean Valjean's special talents. He has many and the years taught him more. One of them included hiding small sharp objects when searched. As the reader may remember, he did so when tied down to a bed all those months ago in the Gorbeau Tenant. This time, when he realized they had been caught spying, he had managed to hide a small surin (in fact, the same he had used to free Javert) in the folding of his sleeve.

Babet and Gueulemer were used to being searched not to search. And they had been more interested in Valjean's wallet and the francs they found inside (Valjean had even seen them argue over how to divide the money). Now, taking advantage of the fact that his hands were propped against a wall – therefore unseen from those who faced him – and that every set of eyes in the room was on Javert and Montparnasse, he had initiated the hazardous task of loosening his ropes.

Montparnasse let go of Javert's lip, leaning back and then standing. Javert sucked on the blood, preventing a trail to fall to his chin. "Why are you here?" Montparnasse asked icily. "How did you find us?"

"Did you kill her?"

"Marianne? Why would I kill her?"

"You tell me."

Montparnasse legs were still pinned against Javert's knees. The inspector had to look up at him. "Is that why you were spying on us? To hear our conversations and see if I slipped and mentioned her?"

"Did you kill her? Did you kill them?"

"Them, who's them?" Montparnasse frowned, confused for a moment.

A small frown appeared on Javert's front. "The other women. The other dead women."

They faced each other, staring. "Am I going to be guilty of every crime in this city inspector? Is that what you're hinting at?"

Javert didn't reply. He pressed his lips together. Valjean who merely seconds ago had wished they would cease their provocative banter was now regretting this oppressive silence that thickened the air. Babet and Brujon were still smirking, obviously enjoying the inspector's undefended situation.

Montparnasse got hold of his gun. "You aren't going to answer me, are you?"

Javert's corner of lip twitched upwards.

"It is a pity Inspector. I had hoped we could part as friends but it seems that you are not disposed to be so kind to me."

He pointed the pistol at Javert. Valjean felt his blood had frozen in his veins but his hands kept moving silently as though they had a mind of their own. Sweat ran down his spine. Javert, however, didn't even blink and simply said, "now that's not nice."

Finally, the rope was loose enough for Valjean to remove his hands. He did not. He did not move. He surveyed the situation carefully forcing himself to think clearly, despite the thundering of his heart. Everyone was staring at Javert and Montparnasse. Valjean was sitting beside the inspector but not pressed against him. Montparnasse however, was facing Javert not Valjean and offered this one the view of his left side.

If he could reach Montparnasse…if he could press his _surin_ against him, he would drop the pistol. Babet was holding Javert's pistol and Valjean knew it was unloaded. Brujon and Guelemer were by Babet's side and the blonde man had stood up and approached them too, observing the scene with interest, away from the table where they had thrown the weapons they had used to force them inside. He was still holding his cup of wine, reluctant to part from it.

_They're not expecting a reaction. If I act swiftly enough they will not reach the pistols in time,_ Valjean thought. It was madness he knew. He would have to be impossibly fast and he would have to believe that Montparnasse was startled enough not to press the trigger. And what would he do if he succeeded?

But if he didn't act they would kill them both anyway. It was just a matter of time. Cosette, he thought immediately. If he died Cosette would be…well, not alone she had Marius now. Would she miss him, he wondered and his chest grew heavy with pain_. Not now Valjean!_ His mind rebuked.

He looked at Javert. Javert could not die like this, thought Valjean. He was trying to save his life not end it! If he had followed Javert's orders, nothing would have happened; in that the Inspector was right.

Valjean muttered a small prayer to himself, tightened the grip around the _surin_ and acted.

In only one second his arms were free and he lunged forward. Valjean grasped Montparnasse's arm, getting hold of the hand that was carrying the pistol and twisted it to his back. The pain and the surprise made the boy stretch his fingers, involuntarily dragging them away from the trigger. Valjean pressed further, twisting more forcefully. Finally the pistol fell to the floor. At the same time, Valjean's other arm was wrapped around his neck, pressing the knife against his skin.

Montparnasse gave a howl of rage but it was fruitless. Valjean was far stronger than him. Behind them, Babet fired Javert's gun. The pistol made a choking, dry sound that was followed by a "merde!"

"Don't move!" Valjean turned them both around, looking at the others, wide eyed. The blonde man had dropped his tankard and he and Gueulemer both caught by surprise looked now ready to jump onto Valjean. Brujon had not yet processed what was happening. "I said don't move or I will slit his throat open!"

He would never know how he managed to keep his voice from trembling. "I will kill him!" He pressed carefully the small blade against the skin of Montparnasse's throat. "Tell them!"

"Do what he says," Montparnasse hissed filled with hatred.

"Yes, do what I say."

Javert was watching with one raised eyebrow and half open mouth.

"You! What's your name?" Valjean asked the blonde man.

He hesitated.

Montparnasse answered for him, "his name is Rand."

"Rand," Valjean repeated. "Untie him." His head gestured to Javert. The man hesitated. "Do as I say!"

He kneeled by Javert's side and allowed his massive hands to untie the knots. The inspector was free but did not look very happy. He stood and placed himself beside Valjean. Their gazes met and Javert kept his eyebrow raised as if asking, "what now?"

Valjean didn't know. Javert's hand massaged his forehead, closing his eyes briefly. They were both about to speak, trying to voice the silent communication they had been having when voices were distinctively heard from the outside. They all froze. Javert looked in the direction of the door.

Only two seconds afterwards it burst open.

* * *

It happened very fast, so fast Valjean had barely chance to register all. The door was opened with a thunder. People screamed. One of the voices yelled, "To them!"

Startled and frightened, Valjean's grip on Montparnasse loosened. The boy, sensing that the danger that came from the door was much greater than everything Valjean could have done to him, freed himself and started to run towards the second division of the house. Rand, Brujon and Gueulemer feeling – as all thieves are prone to understand when it happens – that they had walked into a trap, mimicked Montparnasse's actions, dropping everything.

Only Babet failed to follow these instructions. Since Rand had distracted them by taking far too long to untie Javert's knots, he had been approaching the table where the other pistols were kept. By the time the door was opened he had reached one of them. When Montparnasse escaped Valjean's grip he had looked ahead and saw Babet holding a pistol, aiming at him. The room was not that large. If he fired he surely wouldn't fail.

Valjean closed his eyes._ This is it._

"No!" This rebellious scream was raised above all the others.

Valjean prepared himself for a sharp, burning pain but instead he felt a weight knocking him over to the floor. He fell on his back. A shot resounded in the air. When he opened his eyes he found Javert's face right above his. His brown eyes met his blue eyes made dark with the lack of light. "Are you alright?" He asked urgently. His hands travelled from his wrists to his shoulders. "Valjean, were you shot?"

Valjean blinked. "No," he whispered. "I don't think so."

Javert sank further against him.

"God in Heavens, man what were you thinking?" Javert muttered back against his left cheek.

People were running around them. Valjean wondered briefly who they were and where had Babet and the others gone to. Were they caught? Was this the police? "I can't be here," he said to Javert who was still above him, with a hint of panic in his eyes.

Javert nodded and raised himself up extending a hand to Valjean, helping him up as well. Another hand was placed in Javert's shoulder. "I wonder if I should praise your bravery or curse your stupidity, inspector."

Javert rolled his eyes and turned around. The man in front of him was dressed as a gentleman although he wore no cravat. He had a cudgel in his hands and had been shouting orders at the other agents as though he was their boss. "Hurry up!" He caught the arm of one who had been marching towards the adjacent room. "Coco, forget that, they've chased them there. They broke the window and escaped. Take your men through the door and go around the house from where we came from. They can't get far. Don't let them reach the tenants. Go, go!"

His intelligent green eyes diverted to them and surveyed the inspector and Valjean who wondered who he was. "And who is your foolishly brave friend? Is your recklessness contagious inspector?"

Javert snorted. "This is an associate of mine," he looked at Valjean. "This is Vidocq." He made a pregnant pause waiting for the recognition in Valjean's face. "You must know his name, he has managed to appear in the Moniteur every day for the last two months."

Vidocq smiled. "You flatter me inspector."

"I must have said it wrong then."

The man's infuriating smile widened. "Are you injured?" He asked a little more serious. "Either of you?" he peeked at Valjean.

"I'm fine, sir."

Javert looked around and left their side, rushing to the other division of the house. There were beds unmade and two cupboards. He paid no attention to them. The window was broken and there were traces of blood. Someone must have cut himself there. He still could see the policemen running after them although he could no longer see the gang.

"Damn it all," he whispered to himself.

Vidocq approached him. "This was not what we planned."

"I know," he swallowed. "My friend was not supposed to have come. He was…concerned."

"It is nice that you have someone who is concerned."

Javert snorted. He pressed his lips together and murmured forcibly. "I am sorry."

"It's not your fault. I was delayed. They didn't want to give me the agents I required."

"Gisquet will be furious."

"And he will blame me, don't worry. And it's his fault after all. He thinks we corrupt the men who work with us."

"Don't you?"

Vidocq gave him a look that implied that Javert was better than that. Javert shook his head. "I'm not worried. After what I did for him at the barricades he can't even dare to reprimand me."

We're still after them," Vidocq said, ever the optimistic. "We will catch them. Philippe Gilbert is out there," he gestured to the window and to the night beyond it.

The Inspector said nothing.

"Did he say anything about those dead girls you told me about?"

Javert frowned deeply and insisted on his silence for a long moment. "I'm not certain," and he took a deep breath. "Hopefully I will get to interrogate him further when they catch him."

They stood side by side. Javert's gaze was still on the window and the fields beyond them. Vidocq was observing him attentively. "You will probably be hired you know?"

"What?"

"To the Sûreté. I won't put forward your name because that would mean they wouldn't call you but I'm sure Gilbert will."

"You're talking in riddles, Vidocq."

Vidocq ran a hand through his air disheveling it even more. "Come on, you're not an idiot. You know that it's just a matter of time until they manage to kick me out. Or until I tire of their incompetence and leave by my own foot. But this time Coco won't stay in charge. He says he wants to come with me. We would all leave."

"Finally, some might say."

Vidocq chuckled. "They know you never approved of me or my presence or my work. Or all of them, perhaps. But I don't really mind that because of all of them you're actually smart and good at your job. Plus, you're clean. The Sûreté will need someone like you."

"This is all speculation," Javert smirked. "You've thrown these tantrums before and you're still here."

Vidocq eyed him, tempted to say more. Javert didn't give him the chance. He returned to Valjean's side who had fallen onto a chair and was presently rubbing his temples. "Are you certain you're not injured?"

"I am fine." He repeated. Javert stared. He noticed Valjean was massaging his left leg.

"What happened to your leg?"

"I limp," Valjean said. "Don't you remember?" He looked up at Javert and gave him a small smile. The inspector kept his gaze on the leg.

"Yes. Of course."

"And I'm no longer as young as I was. I used to limp because…well, you know." He lowered his voice, letting it trail off. "But now it hurts sometimes."

"I see," said Javert. "We should get you home, then."

Valjean nodded wishfully.

A man appeared on the door, breathless, holding onto the threshold. Javert raised his eyebrows. "Sir," he started and corrected himself, "Philippe."

"Javert, are you injured? Where is Vidocq?" He was speaking very fast.

"I'm here," Vidocq joined them.

"We caught Babet. He stayed behind."

"Yes, to shoot at us," Javert explained. Philippe's eyes widened a little.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

Vidocq was pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will talk to him. Will you be coming, Javert?"

"Yes, give me a moment," he flicked his fingers to Philippe, calling him.

"Are you certain you're not wounded?"

"Yes, yes," he replied, impatiently. "But I need to ask you. Could you take my friend here home?"

"Your friend?" He repeated again with a tone of incredulity.

"In a manner of speaking. Can you take him home?"

"Javert," Valjean uttered quietly. It was a statement and a request.

The inspector whipped his head to him. Valjean was pleading silently.

"My home," Javert declared decidedly. "You know where I live."

Philippe was confused. "Your home? But…I have to report to Vidocq, Babet he…"

"I will take care of all this," Javert took two steps towards the man, gazing down at him. "He has a pain in his leg and he's not used to such strong emotions. Please, Philippe."

"I can't deny you nothing, damn you," he whispered. Javert made a small bow. Philippe cleared his voice, looking at the older man. "Monsieur…?"

Valjean hesitated once more, eyes still fixed on Javert.

"Fauchelevent," said Javert.

Valjean stood. "Thank you."

"I will owe you one," the inspector told Philippe.

"You already owe me one. This one is the second. No, the third, actually."

Javert opened his arms in surrender. "I always pay my debts."

Philippe smiled brightly. "Take care, Javert. Montparnasse is still out there."

Javert nodded. Valjean faced him. He was trying to devise something to say, to offer, wanted to make it better, and then wondered if there was something to make better, not quite knowing what to make of the events of the last hour. Everything was so surreal, he could hardly believe it was happening to him. "I…" he started. _What are you Valjean_, he asked himself. Sorry? Worried? Grateful?

"I am sorry."

Javert didn't reply to this. "Off you go before Vidocq notices there's one fiacre missing."

* * *

**Thank you so much for the reviews and the favourites. Hopefully you have enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
**


	9. Dialogue of Comfort against Tribulation

**First, I apologize for the delay in updating. May is always a very complicated month for a college student. I want to deeply thank everyone who reviewed and who favourited this story. I'm so happy that you people are enjoying this story. Also I apologize if I haven't answered any review.  
**

* * *

The sun was shining brightly in the sky by the time Javert was driven home. Paris was already up and about, moving on its own as though the city commanded its people, telling them where to go, what routes to take. At that hour everyone seemed to be rushing although they were truly still wishing for their beds.

Coco had offered to take him and Javert accepted gladly. Coco didn't speak as much as Vidocq, - indeed he was so tired that he drifted off twice in the carriage, waking each time his chin hit his chest – and for that Javert was relieved. He needed to think. His chin tucked into the collar of his coat, hands securely kept under his armpits, gaze lost in space (he had fixed a point on Coco's knee but was paying no real attention to it).

Javert wondered divers times where Valjean was. He hadn't given him any key and so Valjean couldn't have entered his house. Not legally, anyway, he thought caustically. _I have allowed him everything, why wouldn't I allow him to break into my house?_

He hoped Valjean had gone home.

Coco muttered something when they arrived. A goodbye, most likely, although Javert was certain he heard the name of Vidocq coming from the man's lips. He didn't care enough to pay attention. Vidocq had helped him and he was grateful (As grateful as one could be to someone one didn't like) but he still was weary of having contacted with him and worst, of having enjoyed their sparring. He had even found himself admiring Vidocq's conduct during the interrogations they had performed in the previous hours.

It was a change and Javert hated change. Before, he and Vidocq had only met briefly when exchanging some information or during some staff meeting at the Prefecture. On such occasions, Javert avoided him and when he could not he always made clear how he disagreed with the importance of the man's position, with his loose and provocative behaviour.

Now he found himself smirking at the jarring remarks they exchanged. He caught himself agreeing with the man's theories, going as far as nodding carelessly in front of everyone. He was even forced to admit in his mind that the way Vidocq treated his men – with little ceremony, often calling them names, allowing them to get back at him whenever they pleased – was effective. There was a sort of camaraderie among them that generated trust and loyalty. Vidocq's men not only respected him as his superior – as they should indeed – but admired him and liked him at a personal level. That Javert had barely felt for any superior.

Except of course, during that short period of time Javert was convinced that Madeleine really was Madeleine and not an escaped convict. Even after all these years he still cringed at the memory of how he had opened himself to Jean Valjean, believing him to be a good man, a just man.

_And is he not?_ A traitorous voice asked in the back of his brain. He didn't have an answer for that.

He climbed up the stairs to his flat with a foreign dread filling his chest. He really hoped Valjean had gone home. The anticipation, like the knowledge of the condemned man before the scaffold, was what Javert was feeling.

Valjean was there. His head turned to him when he appeared at the end of the corridor. Javert didn't move for a few seconds, staring. Then he walked forward. Valjean was clean shaven, he noticed, and newly dressed. He had changed.

"You did not give me a key," he said when Javert reached him.

Javert didn't answer him. He took his own key out of his pocket and opened the door of his house. Valjean followed him with his hands inside his pockets.

"And you should have stayed home."

Valjean smiled ruefully. "I wanted to know what happened after I was gone. And of course…I wanted to thank you for what you did for me last night. And to apologize. I know I broke our agreement but I was concerned you see, and apparently I had cause to be."

"You had no cause," answered the inspector still showing Valjean only his back. Javert laid his hands on his hair and pulled it back. A few strands first came loose and then he removed the lace holding it together. "Vidocq and I had everything planned out. Indeed, it can only be said that you ruined everything."

Valjean was silent. His eyes, previously fixed on the centre of Javert's back, had now lowered to his own feet. He felt ashamed at his own stupidity. "I am sorry," he uttered quietly. "I…" he hesitated before continuing. A wordless Javert was even more threatening than his incessant blabber. "I should have known. I'm so sorry, Javert"

He waited for a long time for the inspector to say anything, to explode, to yell at him or to rebuke him. Javert did neither. He went on and settled down on his bed and took off his shoes. "I want you to leave, now."

Valjean's lips broke into a small smile. "Come Javert we are past this now, aren't we?" he said with a confidence he did not feel. "I wish we could discuss things instead of me being always sent back to my house like a dog."

Javert sighed. He was an exhausted man. "You don't understand, do you? You understand nothing, by God. How can you be so oblivious to everything that happens around you?"

"What…"

"I want you to leave Valjean, I cannot even bear this, now. To see you now. Can you not understand this?"

"But why?" Valjean went to him, looking down at Javert who was still sitting on the bed. "What is this now? If you are angry shout at me. You would be right in doing so, I was a fool. But this? You haven't even told me how it went. Did you arrest them? Was it really Montparnasse who killed Marianne?"

"Is that why you're here? Is that all you want to know?"

"I want to know whatever you want to tell me."

Javert didn't have an answer for this. He sighed deeply for the second time. "We arrested Montparnasse and Babet. The others escaped. I interrogated Montparnasse but he denies having killed Marianne or any of the other whores." Valjean cringed at the word. Javert ignored him. "Of course, he's lying but what else can he do? He wouldn't want to add more crimes to his other charges. He's silent about all the other accusations too."

Valjean wanted to say more but Javert didn't allow him. "Will you leave my house now?"

The older man ran a hand through his white hair. It had been immaculately combed but now some tuffs fell over his brow. "Javert…"

"No."

"Please, you will listen to me," Valjean said firmly but not unkindly. "You do this, you say these things, that you cannot bear my presence and I keep wondering why? What have I done that grieves you so? How do I do this? How do I make it stop? You say I don't understand but how can I if you won't explain it to me!"

Javert's closed fist made sudden contact with the mattress of the bed. It provoked a muffled, dry sound. "I can't!" he cried out. "You are a mystery I cannot solve, a riddle I can't understand, and I always solve, I always understand. You are not…" He was at a true loss of words. "You confound me, Jean Valjean. I can't stand your presence. Being with you suffocates me. So if you have any of your goddamned charity in you, you would leave."

Valjean parted his lips to speak but he didn't think he could say anything that would help the man. "You are very tired," he stated instead, "and upset. I will leave you. But I will return. I will at least try to amend my wrongs."

Javert was not looking at him. He waited until Valjean closed the door to bring his hands to his head, massaging his temples.

In a way he knew that this was simply the result of having spent the last three months avoiding the subject of Jean Valjean. A particularly hard task especially when the man chose to impose his presence on him repeatedly. But last night, after having arrested and questioned Montparnasse and Babet, after having conferred with Vidocq, he sat down to rest for a moment. Then it hit him: everything he had done in the past hours, everything he had allowed, how much it had changed him.

First, he allowed himself to be blackmailed and manipulated by Valjean. He permitted him, a convict on the run, to take part in a police investigation. He allowed Valjean to study official documents, to interrogate witnesses. He had excused himself several times by saying that this was not much different than Vidocq and his little thieves. But many of them were on parole and so they were living inside the law; furthermore, since when did he draw such parallels between himself and Vidocq?

But he knew it was worse than this. It was one thing to allow Valjean to roam free. It was another to connive with him and his ways. And what he had done in that house…what he had done for Valjean only hours ago weighed in his heart and mind and prevented him from thinking rationally. All reason, it seemed, escaped him when Jean Valjean was concerned.

Even now he could barely put it to words. He had covered for Valjean. He had lied to Vidocq and Philippe, Philippe Gilbert who had been his boss and was his superior still, about Valjean's identity, about the nature of their relationship. It was not a matter of ignoring Valjean as he had hoped in vain he could do. Javert was actively breaking the law.

"Oh God," he moaned into his hands which pressed against his face. How could he have allowed this?

Javert found himself in great agony. The same state of mind that three months ago had taken him to Pont Au Change.

_I wish Babet's bullet had killed me._

And he had saved Valjean's life! To complete the roll of absurdities, he had jumped onto the man! And it hadn't been a desire to protect a citizen that prompted him, it hadn't been the desire to see his duty done that moved him. No, it had been fear. Pure and sheer fear that came from the bottom of his heart.

_You have a heart of wood,_ his mother had told him once. Javert had believed her and, although she had meant it as a slight he had taken pride in it. Now he doubted. He doubted himself, his heart of wood that he wished could be made of stone instead.

Why did he save him then? He admired Valjean. He hated to do so, this unstoppable feeling that flourished inside him. It was still so much easier to treat Valjean as the criminal whom he had believed to be cunning and cruel and unchangeable.

But Valjean had saved his life at the barricade when it was really his right to kill him. Valjean who had carried a half dead boy through the sewers of Paris because he wished to see his foster daughter happy. A boy, Javert reminded himself now certain of this, that Valjean did not care for. Valjean who had followed him last night because he was concerned.

Javert admired him and even went as far as to respect his reckless courage. A courage not of the mind but of the heart. Valjean was full of selfless goodness, always ready to give, to make a martyr of himself. Why was it that he insisted on being with Javert, on accompanying him, on trying to prevent him from throwing himself into the river again if not for that? Charity, goodness, gentleness. A complete lack of selfishness, it was the only explanation.

Javert had once deemed this to be a wrong goodness. Kindness. But perhaps, perhaps it was not. But how could it not be if Valjean himself had stolen, was a criminal, had tried to escape from prison several times, and was still presently living outside the law, under a false name? How could this man who disregarded law, who had attacked society be so good? So kind and sublime?

It did not occur to the inspector that not even Valjean would see himself as this. That he was idealizing the man to the point where he became a supernatural being. That Valjean indeed felt jealousy, envy, anger. But Javert had not learned yet that a man can be good and still do wrong things.

Along the remaining hours of the day Javert, who had leaned back against the mattress, did not move. He tried to focus his thoughts on the case, on Montparnasse and his motives but even that subject had lost its interest now that he believed he had solved it. His thoughts returned to Valjean and to his own actions. Their weight crushed them. He was overwhelmed and could do little else than lie down and hear the wheels of his mind moving.

* * *

Valjean and Cosette took a detour before resuming their journey to Rue de Filles du Calvaire where Marius lived. They stopped at the post office where Vajean busied himself for a few moments, sending a letter. When he returned to the carriage he gave his daughter an apologetic smile. She barely noticed; in fact, she didn't even wonder about the letter.

Marius was recovering slowly but steadily. He was still abed for most of the days but on occasion he was able to convince the doctor that he could be moved to the salon and sit with his grandfather and his aunt for a few hours. What he looked most forward to was for Cosette. He was able to dress himself properly when she visited. It gave her great pleasure to see him so dashing, looking less and less haggard and disheveled.

Valjean served as chaperone. He was aware that he allowed them too much freedom. Marius would often reach to grasp Cosette's hand, his fingers caressing hers. Valjean himself could hardly bear the sight of this and gazed at the floor. Marius made little effort to draw him into the conversation. That task belonged to Cosette but as their rendezvous became more frequent she simply forgot the presence of her father.

Valjean's only consolation was that Marius did not speak of the events of the barricade. He was now completely convinced that the boy had no recollection of him being there; his memories were lost between dream and reality and he couldn't distinguish one from another. He was still traumatized. Valjean could well recognize the signs for he had suffered the same ordeal after having left Toulon.

On that day, however, Marius found himself gayer and in an expansive mood. He talked at leisure about the wedding. He had spoken with his aunt and he wanted everything to be according to Cosette's wishes. "I am afraid my grandfather will want to take part in the arrangements. But he adores you," he told her, "and so I'm certain you will have your way."

Cosette smiled at this. "I do not need to have my way in everything. I would even prefer a quieter ceremony but you are the only grandson your grandfather has and we ought to indulge him."

Marius took her hand to his lips. "And I thought that all young ladies dreamed about the perfect wedding."

Cosette leaned a little towards him. Valjean had risen from his chair and was standing by the window. "I already have my deepest heart's desire. The rest, it seems, is only something that precedes our final happiness." She looked back at her father. "Furthermore, I was taught that about the importance of simplicity and modesty."

Marius's smile widened. "You were well taught. Monsieur, I must thank you for it. I fell in love with Cosette as soon as I saw her but her character made me certain that I would only be happy if I spent the rest of my life with her."

Valjean turned around. "Cosette was educated in a Convent, Monsieur. I expect that her virtues were shaped there although she was always a sweet child."

"My father underestimates his own efforts. He taught me about kindness and humility, not the nuns."

Valjean's lips curled into a small smile to hide his discomfort. He let the couple continue with their exchange of endearments and made no further contributions to their conversation. Instead, his thoughts turned to Javert.

Since he had left the inspector's house that same morning he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the man's words. He put them in new perspectives, trying to interpret his words, trying to uncover their meaning and most of all trying to understand Javert's feelings. Initially he was convinced that Javert hated him and still firmly believed that he was a dangerous ex-con.

But this seemed altogether an oversimplification. Javert had saved his life and although this could be perceived as a mere fulfillment of his duty as a policeman it did not explain why the inspector had covered for him, lying blatantly to Vidocq's face and then to Monsieur Gilbert. Javert was not only hiding him but lying for his sake.

Then there was the matter of the suicide. He remembered Javert's words: on that bridge the inspector had clearly told him that he was attempting to kill himself because of him. He had called him a saint. Did Javert believe then that Valjean was a good man? But how could he hate him even with this knowledge?

Valjean didn't understand but this didn't stop him from feeling responsible. He thought again and again about Javert's behaviour the night before; how brave (even to the point of stupidity), how smart he had been for now he realized the inspector had been merely stalling, waiting for Vidocq to arrive. And he had saved his life. Had it not been Hadn't been for Javert, he would have been dead.

The sun was setting.

"Cosette," Valjean said suddenly, uncharacteristically loud. "Forgive me Monsieur Marius but I have business to attend before dinner and I would like to take Cosette home before doing so."

They were caught by surprise. Cosette obediently stood up but Marius thought fit to insist. "Perhaps I could find a carriage to take her home, Monsieur Fauchelevant. My cousin is nearby I could call him…"

"No," Valjean said. "I am sorry Monsieur but I don't think it would be proper." Valjean's tone carried an icily possessive edge. You are not yet married, he seemed to say, she still belongs to me.

Marius was disconcerted with the man's sudden bluntness but was quick to add, "of course, forgive me. You are completely right." He reached for Cosette's hand and kissed it for the hundredth time that afternoon. "You must forgive my impatience. I have been so long apart from your daughter that the thought of her leaving distresses me to the point of impoliteness."

Valjean nodded. "I do understand but you will have a lifetime together. I'm certain you can dispense my daughter a few more hours without your company."

"Of course we can!" Cosette exclaimed. "Don't look so sullen, both of you. I will be here after tomorrow, Marius."

They said their goodbyes though the boy lingered a little more with Cosette's hand. Finally, they got into the fiacre. Valjean feared Cosette would rebuke him for their sudden departure but she was both blessed with a great understanding as well as accustomed to her father's strange ways. She did not even ask any questions when he, after having left her at Rue d'le Homme Armée, got in the carriage again and gave the driver an address for a site on the other side of the city.

* * *

The faint lights of dusk were visible in the horizon. Valjean stood alone in the street, facing Javert's building. For once he felt confident that the inspector was home. He pushed past the front door which was always opened given the broken lock (which, unknown to Valjean, had been broken by the students who lived on the floor below Javert) and climbed the stairs. This time, however, there was no hesitation in his step. For the first in many weeks, Valjean felt certain of what he ought to do. He was most decidedly, a man with a mission.

He knocked. No one answered and he repeated the action. After half a minute he heard footsteps from someone who was walking without shoes. The door was opened to reveal Javert still wearing the same clothes – and coat- he had on when Valjean left the apartment in the morning.

"What are you doing here?" He asked sharply but there was in his voice a tinge of tiredness he wasn't able to disguise.

"I want to talk to you. And we will talk Monsieur Inspecteur, we will talk and you will not send me away."

Javert regarded him with surprise. The Valjean he had known in Paris was not an assertive man. Their meetings in the last months strengthened this impression. It had been different in M-Sur-mer. M. Madeleine was different: he was respected in the town because he was good and rich. His timidity and discretion put people at bay and although he was kind he was also deemed unapproachable; people saw him as one would see a saint at an altar. Javert had been the exception to this rule, always suspicious, narrowing his eyes at him. But as deceitful as he had been, Madeleine was also his superior and when he spoke to Javert he was always aware of their hierarchical differences.

Now Valjean reminded him of that man he once pretended to be.

Javert stepped away to let him in and closed the door. Valjean gazed at the bed. It was disarranged; the pillow was out of place and had the imprint of a head. Javert's shoes were on the floor at the end of the bed and they were not neatly set as one would expect from the meticulous inspector.

"You haven't done much today," commented Valjean looking around. Javert crossed his arms and leaned against the door.

"I am waiting, Monsieur," he told him, "for you to speak."

"Have you eaten today?" Valjean asked instead gazing at the empty stove.

"No," Javert answered simply.

"Do you want me to fetch you something?"

"I want you to state your business."

Valjean swallowed. It seemed that only now he was devising what to say. He knew in his heart what he wanted to say but to put it in words was much harder. He did not have a way with words, he never did. He would have to be frank and blunt but he was afraid of angering the inspector even further.

He started off slowly as though he was explaining a complex mathematical problem to a child. "Three months ago I found you on Pont au change and you told me you wanted to kill yourself. You made clear that for some reason I do not understand, I was to blame."

He waited for a reaction but Javert only stared pointedly at him. He pressed on.

"Then, yesterday you saved my life. You jumped onto me when Babet was about to shoot and kill me. You lied for me," he raised a hand, "I know how hard it must have been for you…to lie for a man you believe is a criminal. To have saved a life you perhaps think I'm not worthy of having."

Valjean paused to organize his thoughts.

"I think you must hate me…but you see Javert, in the last weeks I have seen you and talked with you in manners I never had before. When I was a mayor I could not talk to you as I would like, using my own name, my own past because I was lying to you. Now is different. I believe you are a good man. And I wish to help you. You are in a dark mood, perhaps not different from the one that brought you to that bridge. I thought long and hard about this and I remember your behavior when we drove Marius home. And I fear…"

"Why do you wish to help me?" He interrupted suddenly. "Why can't you leave me alone, Valjean? I chased you to the point of persecution. I ruined your life."

"That is not true," Valjean replied. "You did only your duty, what you were bound to do. I cannot blame you. I wish of course that you would recognize me as a good man but if you cannot…" he smiled a little. "You said earlier that I don't understand you and it is true. But if you helped me to understand…"

"It is charity," Javert said, "It was charity that made you save me at the barricades. It is charity what brings you here now."

"And is that so bad? That someone should be kind to you?"

"I don't need kindness!" Javert cried out of sudden. "I told you once. To be kind is easy the hard thing is to be just and your kindness disrupts the order of things. Corrupts them. And I have always been just except…I don't know now. I don't know if I have been just. It seems to me since you saved my life that I haven't. Do you see now? I was kind when I helped you with the boy, I was kind when I saved you last night, I was kind when I lied to my superiors. I was kind but I was lying, I was corrupt. You corrupted me, do you see now? You corrupted me on that night because I couldn't for the life of me arrest you. You saved me, you are good, you are good…"

Javert's breath had quickened, his eyes were wide, as words fell out of his mouth he was forgetting how to breathe. Valjean advanced hesitantly towards him but Javert raised his hand to stop him.

"You are a good man and you shouldn't be. You are a criminal, you did wrong. You stole, you escaped, you are a criminal still, you broke parole and you live as a fugitive. But despite knowing this, despite being well aware that my duty as a policeman, as an agent of authority was to arrest you I could not do it. And not only I couldn't do it as I prevented others from doing so, from knowing who you are. I broke the law for your sake, I faltered my duty I shamed myself for your sake, Valjean now tell me, how would a man like me react to this?"

The last words were uttered as a loud scream. A scream of frustration and despair and hopelessness.

Valjean stared at him in horror. But Javert was not yet finished. He had now grasped Valjean by the shoulders and was slightly shaking him.

"You are good and you should not be. I should arrest you. It is my duty. But I cannot. Why? Because you are a good man and my conscience doesn't allow me to arrest a good man. You do not deserve to be arrested. How do I solve this? How can I do my duty and still pay tribute to my conscience? I cannot, it is impossible. So I wanted to remove myself from the equation. But I was prevented."

Valjean did not speak. He found himself unable to do so. Javert always seemed to him an invincible being. Tall, strong, with deep blue eyes, formidable in every sense of a word. An animal and a machine, a man whose feelings, thoughts and wants revolved around duty. Javert, apparently, had thought himself to be all those things too. Now they had both discovered that it was not so.

Javert had ceased shaking him but his hands were still tightly clawed to his shoulders.

"Javert…" Valjean murmured his voice filled with compassion and pity. Javert's hands descended and settled themselves on the older man's coat. His chest swelled. It had become painful to exhale the air that was compressing his lungs.

"I don't know…I don't know if I should resign, if I should return to that bridge, if I should…"

"You will do nothing of the sort," Valjean stated firmly. "We have worked for years together. I learned that you were honourable then. And we saved each other's lives. We are indebted to each other. I cannot claim to fully understand you but…I want to. I cannot allow you to die, not when I know the part I play in your suffering."

"I can't do it," Javert told him very seriously. "To cover for you, to lie, to betray myself and my duty everyday…"

"It doesn't have to be like that. Life is not like that." Valjean's hands slowly, fearfully, were placed upon Javert's. "It's not as simple as that."

Javert stared first at their joint hands and then at his eyes. He looked calmer. "Then how is it?"

Valjean stared back at the inspector, realization slowly dawning on him. Despite their views, their radically opposite opinions on people, life and kindness, they were not that different. The questions Javert was posing himself, "How could this have happened, who am I, what do I do now," were not much different from those that had tormented him all those years ago, after he left the Bishop of Digne's house. Only instead of falling to his knees and pray Javert could only rage and despair.

He tightened the grip around Javert's hands. "You will see it is not so simple. That there is more to life and men than good and bad and duty. If you let me, if you let me, I will help you understand." Valjean paused for a moment. "Do you allow me?"

Javert went very still. With a strange hesitation, he detached his hands from Valjean's, pulling away from the older man. He went over to the basin of water that stayed by his bed and washed his face several times. Then he sat on the mattress and put on his shoes. He sat quietly for a long time, staring down. He leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees.

Valjean was waiting for him. He stood motionless in the same spot for long minutes.

"You must have the patience of a saint, Jean Valjean," he uttered finally. Valjean smiled a little, relief slowly washing over him. "Or perhaps you are applying for martyrdom."

Valjean chuckled. "I'm afraid it's simply concern for my fellow man."

"Yes, I was afraid it would be something like that…or perhaps," Javert looked up, with a newfound cunningness, "you are simply looking for another pet project now that your daughter is sure to marry the…dolt she chose for a husband."

Valjean's expression darkened immediately. Javert raised his eyebrows and sighed. "Forgive me. That is none of my business."

Valjean didn't answer, perhaps waiting for Javert to insist on this idea but the inspector muttered to himself instead, "I am no stranger to the idea of finding distractions from what really disturbs you."

"You are not that, Javert."

"Not only that you mean. Come let us be frank with each other."

Valjean lowered his head and the inspector wasn't able to see the emotions that crossed his face. He decided it didn't matter. "So you say you are going to teach me about the complexity of life is that it?"

"I don't think you have been doing as bad as you think. You did manage these last three months. You're still here," Valjean said, happy that Javert had chosen to step away from the subject of Cosette and Marius.

"I had a case. I don't have that anymore."

"So it is over? You think Montparnasse killed them?"

Javert got to his feet. "I am rather hungry. There is a tavern on the corner. The mistress is a tolerable cook. And I look forward for your first lesson, teacher." Valjean gazed at him with a half smile, not knowing if the inspector was serious or purely making sport of him. "I can tell you about the case when we get there. If I recall it well you had news for me too about Vallée's family."

* * *

Two bowls of soup were set in front of them. Valjean broke the bread but Javert focused on the soup, playing with his spoon, taking it to his lips only a couple of times. The remaining time he played with the liquid, moving the spoon in slow circles, observing attentively the steam that rose from the hot bowl. Valjean said nothing to this near childlike attitude. He ate his meal contently for he hadn't realized how hungry he had been until food was placed in front of him. He waited patiently for the Inspector to speak, knowing he would eventually; otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to bring him here. Javert was a determined man. When he decided to leave the house and sup with him he made a decision, an important one. He wouldn't back down now.

His perseverance was indeed rewarded.

"You told me a few days ago that you had news about Marianne Vallée."

"Yes. As you instructed me, I went to her tenant and I talked with the landlady. Very nice lady, I must say."

"No doubt your looks and your pocket helped to strengthen her good humour."

Valjean looked up. "My looks?"

Javert rolled his eyes and waved a hand. "Continue."

Still slightly disconcerted Valjean pressed on. "There aren't many differences between Marianne Vallée and the other girls. They all have the same story. The landlady claims she was a quiet girl who used to work as a seamstress but was fired because she kept bad company."

"Oh?"

"From what she said, and she had all the air of a lady who knows these things, Marianne fell in love with a boy. A dashing boy she says, too dashing. A proper man does not look like that, she told me."

"Montparnasse," murmured Javert.

Valjean nodded slowly. "Yes. I asked her more about this boy. She described him to me and when I saw him yesterday I realized it could only be him."

"He is remarkable, indeed."

Valjean surveyed Javert with the utmost attention trying to disclose some hidden meaning behind this sentence. He found several but decided against voicing his questions.

"So…" Javert breathed to himself, "she was forced into whoring herself because of Montparnasse? And she still insisted of pursuing this connection?"

"His visits to her house didn't stop. On the contrary."

Javert dropped the spoon. "So perhaps Montparnasse did lure her into that trade."

"Didn't he tell you that?" Valjean asked finally. "What did he tell you after all?"

"Nothing really. He denied having killed the women but then again he denied all of his crimes, including the other murders we are certain he committed."

"So what do you think? Do you think he did it?"

Javert parted his lips and wet them with his tongue. "I don't know," he said honestly. "There is something not right. Why would he kill them? He says he has no idea who the other girls were."

"What if he's lying?"

Javert smirked. "Have I been able to convince you that people lie?"

"I think in this case it would not be so unlikely."

Javert shrugged. "Still, I am not convinced. Why would he kill them? Perhaps they knew something about him. But what? Montparnasse is not really a secretive boy. We know what he does the problem is catching him doing it."

Valjean contemplated his cup of wine. "She comes from Faverolles."

Javert who had turned his attention to his soup deciding to give it another try, looked up sharply. "Who? Vallée?"

Valjean nodded. "The name was not completely unknown to me although I could not recall where I had heard it. Now I know."

"How can you be so certain?"

Valjean smiled. Count with Javert to always ask the right questions. "I convinced her landlady to let me in her flat."

"You did what?"

"It was no crime!" Valjean said hurriedly. "I said that I was looking into Marianne's life, I did not lie. She asked if I was from the police and I simply smiled and I diverted the subject. I did not even lie."

"But you let her believe a lie."

"You were the one who gave me this mission!" said Valjean. Javert's mood darkened. Valjean cursed himself. "Forgive me, what I meant was that…"

"No," Javert interrupted calmly. "You are right of course. You could only have lied."

The older man eyed him uncertainly.

"You were saying?"

Valjean brought the cup to his lips, drinking leisurely. "Inside her house I found a few letters. Marianne couldn't really write but she had an address on an envelope and there were a few francs inside. The landlady told me it was to her mother, a widow who lived somewhere in Picardie to whom she sent money. I looked at the address and recognized it immediately."

"Oh that is rich," Javert muttered under his breath. He then raised his falcon eyes to Valjean, surveying him. "You sent her money didn't you?"

Valjean bowed his head. "Marianne barely sent her enough to eat."

"Oh God," Javert moaned, rubbing his eyes.

"There is no harm in this."

"What if the woman remembers?"

"How?" Valjean asked skeptically. "That could never happen. I'm not showing myself only my handwriting and she probably does not even know how to read. And she must be as old as me. Even if she remembers Jean Valjean she would never set eyes on me and even if she did God knows I have changed. You better than anyone know that."

The inspector obviously wanted to dispute but it was the truth. He kept rubbing his face tiredly.

"Furthermore," added Valjean, "I can find more about Marianne. And in any case, someone needed to tell the mother about her child's death."

"Yes, she lost her daughter so at least let her have some money."

"Good God in Heavens the things you say."

But he was not truly angry. Somehow he realized that this was the only way Javert could cope with his kindness. By mocking it.

Javert had finished half of his bowl and he was not going to have the rest since it had grown cold. Valjean finished his wine. "You should go to bed. To rest. Put your mind at rest."

"I have rested enough today."

"You have worried enough today," countered Valjean. He rose from his chair. "Come, I will take you home."

An annoyed sigh escaped Javert's lips. "I don't need pampering. Or protection. Stop treating me like a child."

"You want my help don't you?"

Javert looked down for a moment. "Does that mean I have become yours to command and obey?"

"No, of course it's not…" Valjean trailed off with a sigh. "We have been over this."

Javert stood up as well and tossed some coins over the table. Valjean joined his own money to Javert's. "So what does that mean? How are you going to teach me? How are you going to…help me?"

Valjean mused on this. He hadn't yet considered his plan of action. He had thought that feeding Javert was more pressing. "Tomorrow you will work. You will do your duty as you have done so far. You have been managing well these last three months. Try not to think much about me…"

"I find that difficult," murmured Javert but Valjean ignored him.

"We could dine together. I would like to talk with you. I believe…" Valjean bit down his lip. "Since my own actions and character triggered your…distress then perhaps you ought to know more about me."

"I know all about you."

"You said it yourself you don't understand me. Perhaps if you did…perhaps you could come to understand, to realize how I am not simply good or bad, angel or a demon. How people are not. How people are good but circumstances turn them bad."

Javert rolled his eyes at the phrasing and went past Valjean, waving absentmindedly at woman behind the counter. The older man went after him. The night was warm and Valjean was reminded of his walks with Cosette by the river. He wondered briefly if Javert had ever indulged in such pleasures or if he thought they were a simple waste of time. He realized once more how little he knew of this man. He had no idea where he was born, who were his parents, if he had ever been married, if he had ever had a sweetheart (though it was difficult to imagine Javert whispering sweet nothings to a woman's ear). If he was forced to be frank, Valjean would have to admit that he had never wondered such things about the inspector before.

"Let's forget the last part," Valjean said, "but you can know my character better and perhaps through me you can understand some things better…some of your doubts may be cleared."

Javert slowed his step and he stared at his shoes while walking. They didn't say more until they reached Javert's building again. He turned to Valjean, facing him whole. "Very well. Tomorrow then you shall tell me about you."

Valjean smiled and Javert shifted uncomfortably. "I will be going then," Valjean said.

Javert nodded. Valjean turned his back to him and had started to walk away when hurried steps were heard against the cobblestone. Someone was running towards them. Javert snapped his head to the unusual sound that reached them. Valjean stopped too and looked back at him, furrowing his brow.

"Inspector Javert!" someone cried. Javert recognized it immediately. It was Michel, one of his sergeant des villes.

He reached him breathless. Valjean had returned to his side but Javert pretended he wasn't there. The boy supported himself against the wall, breathing heavily. "Something just happened, sir. We need you to come back to the quartier."

"What happened? Did you run all the way here?"

"There…there were no fiacres available."

Javert muttered his annoyances under his breath. "What happened? You need air to speak boy so take a little time to breathe first."

"We found a woman. A girl. Another one. Near the Halles aux Vins."


	10. The riddle inside a mystery

**I apologize for the delay! And once more thank you so much for reading and enjoying this. All your reviews and alerts are cherished and shall continue to be. **

* * *

Javert looked at his sergeant de ville for a long time, searching his face as though he had failed to hear him. "Sir?" The young man said again, afraid. Valjean gazed at Javert and nudged his arm softly. He shuddered and rubbed his eyes. His hands moved upwards, massaging his scalp and temples. His eyes had closed.

"Javert, are you feeling well?" Valjean inquired, hiding his nervousness. It was an old habit, but he still felt unease around policemen. He half feared Javert would blurt out his identity any moment now.

Javert nodded after a few seconds. He fluttered his eyelids open and looked at Valjean. "Go home. I will send you a note."

Valjean could not argue, not before Javert's colleague and not when the Inspector sounded so calm and almost considerate. "I will be waiting." He tipped his hat towards Michel and with one last glance at Javert he walked away.

The inspector waited until he ceased to hear his steps. "Who found her?"

"A shopkeeper. He had just closed his store and was going home when he saw her body."

Javert took his arm and pulled him. "Come on, we must hurry. I want to get there before they take the body."

* * *

When they reached Halle Aux Vins half an hour later, the body was already being taken away. Michel hadn't been able to tell him much more. He hadn't even seen the woman since Commissaire Béranger had instructed him to fetch Inspector Javert. The inspector had asked the boy if it was another prostitute but Michel didn't know although he added that on that place at that hour it could only be. Javert was not surprised to see Béranger there but he raised his eyebrows when his gaze landed on Philippe Gilbert who was quietly smoking a cigarette, leaning against a street lamp.

He approached him and Gilbert offered him a cigar. Javert declined. "Do we know her?"

"No, not yet. She's going to be taken to your station."

Their eyes met. "Are we certain it was the same man?"

"Throat slashed from one end to another. Clean cut from behind. No struggle, no apparent fight. She kept her purse though she only had a few sous. Yes, it seems it is the same man."

Javert was about to open his mouth when Béranger reached them. "I thought you had arrested the man who was supposed to be doing this," he looked accusatively at Javert who made no effort to deny the implication. "I don't suppose Montparnasse escaped La Force this night and walked over here to kill her did he?"

Philippe rolled his eyes. "Guillaume, spare us your sarcasm, you're not good at it."

"It is the third murder on my quartier, Gilbert! People are bound to notice this now. I bet I'll have the newspapers asking questions."

"Of course you won't," Gilbert scoffed. "They are busy elsewhere. God knows Vidocq is making sure of that."

"Sir!" it was Michel's voice. The three of them turned their faces. But he was looking at Javert with wide eyes, pointing at the body. "I know her!"

Javert stepped away from the wall. Gilbert threw the cigar to the floor and stumped upon it, following him. "You what?"

"I know her. She's not a whore. She works at Pie bavarde. It's a tavern near Jardin des Plantes. It's on Rue Duc d'Orleans. I go there often.

"Does the owner live there?"

"I don't know. You can try. His name is Monsieur Alphonse."

Béranger coughed. "I can go there and…"

"I would rather not," Gilbert interrupted. "After all, Javert was the one mistaken about this. He and I will go question the man. You ought to go with Cluzet and Michel to the station and write the report. Also, someone has to go wake a physician. We will need words from him."

Javert hid his smile by staring at his feet. Philippe faced the Commissaire. "You cannot order me around, Philippe."

"No, indeed I cannot. But do you really want to barge into a tavern at this hour and be received with insults only to talk with a man who will most likely answer you monosyllabically?"

Béranger made his distaste clear with an ugly curl of lips.

"Furthermore, it would be convenient if someone were to knock on a few doors around here to ask if the neighbors saw anything. They would be less enraged if the Commissaire were to do that," Gilbert added, and didn't wait for an articulated answer. He beckoned Javert to follow him which he was only too happy to oblige. The air smelled of smoke and blood and Béranger was determined to blame him. He cast a last glimpse at the corpse making a mental note to look at it better when he returned to the station.

"Thank you for that."

"You're welcome. I know you don't like paperwork." They walked decidedly, with a purpose. Javert was silent for a long while.

"Did you know?"

"That it wasn't Montparnasse? How could I?"

"You know these things," Philippe told him with half a smile. "You are good at this job."

"Clearly I am not since this is the fourth woman we found dead." Suddenly Javert halted and grabbed Philippe's arm. He turned his head to the taller men and was startled: Javert's eyes were terrible, blue and dark and piercing.

"Why did he kill a tavern wench this time?" Javert demanded and pulled at his arm as though he firmly believed Gilbert had the answer.

Philippe shrugged but made no effort to free himself. "Probably he couldn't distinguish them. A tavern girl doesn't earn much more than a whore. She probably gets less. Such girl, passing on those streets at night could be perfectly mistaken by a prostitute."

Javert 's hand fell to his side. "It doesn't make sense."

"This man is a killer. He's mad, Javert. It's not supposed to make sense. But in one thing Béranger is right. We have to catch him. If he continues on this spree people will start noticing and there will be panic. A city in panic with a killer on the loose? It's just the kind of thing these people want."

The inspector nodded and they resumed their walk. Javert said nothing more until they reached the tavern. It was closed and so they banged their fists against the door, repeatedly. A couple of windows were opened and someone shouted. Philippe threw them an insult. "Open this door! Police!"

Finally there were footsteps. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Not fast enough," Javert said aloud and the door was open to reveal a man's angry, sleepy face dimly lightened by a candle which he carried in his hand.

"What do you want? Who are you?"

"Monsieur Alphonse?" The man nodded suspiciously. "I am Officier de Paix, Philippe Gilbert and this is Inspector Javert. We want to talk with you."

"Can't it wait?" The man spat. It was an older man, Javert saw, around Valjean's age but smaller, plumper and with a longer beard.

"No, it can't. And you should let us in unless you want your neighbors to know that you have business with the police."

The argument was strong enough. He stepped away, letting them inside and rapidly shut the door. He then moved to light other candles and an oil lamp. It was a small place, definitely smaller than Pére Borbot and less clean judging by the dust and the foul smell that lingered in the air. Javert and Gilbert settled on the benches against the counter. "What do you want from me?"

"There is a girl working here with you. Who is her?"

"Joséphine. What of her? She's not here!"

"Why would she be here?" Javert jumped into the conversation as he had been quiet since they entered the place.

"She…she…" the man stumbled, "she sometimes stays until later. Cleaning, that is."

Javert and Philippe exchanged a look. "She was found dead," said Philippe. "In a street, close to the Halle aux vins."

Monsieur Alphonse opened his mouth and closed it several times. "Dead? How…dead?"

"The only way one can be. Heart stopped beating." Javert murmured but was muffled by the sound of Philippe coughing to clear his voice.

"Her throat was slashed. She was murdered."

"Murdered?" he repeated, eyes very wide. His hand travelled his face stroking his beard. "Was it like the other girls?"

"What other girls? What do you know about them?"

"There have been murders like that, don't you know? Of course you do, you're the police." He said as if he had just remembered. "Is it the same man?"

"We don't know. Why did you think it was the same man?" Javert asked. The other man's face grew very red realizing how incriminating he had sounded.

"I mean…I don't know anything sir. But it sounded…you see, logical."

"Yes." Javert uttered.

"What time did she leave?"

"It was nighttime already sir. We close by eleven sir, especially when we don't have more costumers. We don't get many people after that hour and I'm no longer a young man you see, I can no longer keep this up and running until midnight. But my cooking is the best in the neighborhood I can tell you that sir, in fact I'm the only who gets fresh…"

"So what time did you close? And what time did she leave?" Philippe asked, raising his voice.

"It was probably…twenty minutes after we closed…half past eleven. She left and I went immediately to bed."

Javert figured it would be close to 2 am now.

"Did anyone out of ordinary visit today?"

"No, sir."

"And in the last days?"

Monsieur Alphonse furrowed his brow. "Well…"

"Yes?" Javert leaned forward.

"Last week there was this man. I had never seen him here and he came for three days in a row. He came late at night and he had a meal and then he would be the last or one of the last to leave. In the first day, we even stayed open until midnight because of him. He sat there reading a newspaper in complete silence. He was not French."

"He wasn't French?"

"He spoke very well but he had a strange accent. It certainly wasn't any accent familiar to my ears and I tell you I've travelled enough through the country to recognize accents."

"Did you talk at all?"

"I tried. He only said that he had business in the city and he needed a place to have supper while he was here. But he had a cold manner, you see? I did not want to ask any more questions."

"What did he look like?"

"Very well dressed although a bit old fashioned. He was an older gentleman, not one of those young men who go around wearing white trousers and all that. No sir, this one was clean and shaved. He was tall…well, taller than me. Perhaps your height," he gestured at Philippe, "but with broad shoulders. And his hair was grey, almost white and it was pulled back, very well combed you see? He had dark, black eyes, I remember that."

Philippe was silent after this. Javert was tapping his fingers lightly on the counter while he bit the back of his other hand. One second afterwards, that hand had joined the other in front of him and he asked, "so he came here for three nights in a row? What did you serve?"

"He asked for soup and bread and wine. One of the times he had chicken breast."

"And then after the third night he just stopped coming?"

"Yes. I thought that he had finished whatever business he had here and left."

"Did he ever talk with the girl? Joséphine?"

"Well, she served him the wine but I can't remember them talking, really."

"He didn't tip her?" Philippe wondered, with a look at Javert who leaned back, allowing him to proceed. Philippe bit back a smile. They were good at this, they always had been.

"I…I can't remember."

"Can't you make an effort?" Insisted Javert.

Monsieur Alphonse rubbed his eyes and then took a deep breath. "You are asking too many questions. You came here at this ungodly hour and you tell me my serving girl is dead. Now I have to find another because I can't do all the work on my own, and you ask more and more questions…"

"I am certain that is a great inconvenient," Javert replied calmly. "That you have to find another girl but could we focus on this one at the moment? If the next one shows up dead we will worry about her then."

"Don't even say that sir!" Alphonse exclaimed not grasping the extent of Javert's sarcasm. Philippe pressed his lips together to avoid a smile.

"Make an effort Monsieur." Philippe said pleasantly. "Don't you remember them talking, or him giving her something, perhaps luring her to meet him after work or anything of the sort?

"I don't think so. She usually told me when costumers tipped her or talked to her."

It was Philippe's turn to sigh.

"Who was the girl? Joséphine? What do you know of her? For how long had she worked here?"

"Two years, I think. She was a widow. Husband worked somewhere north in the city. A factory or something of the sort. He died during work. She used to sup here with him and when he died she came here begging me for work. She needed the money. I took pity on her and didn't let her pay for the meals she had here. I was a good boss." He said with a small self satisfactory smile.

"Where did she live?"

"In a hovel near the Halle Aux Vins…suppose that's why she was found there. That can barely be called a building, she used to tell me. I never went there."

Philippe nodded absentmindedly. "Did she have any…friends? Male friends?"

"I shouldn't think so. I liked decency here," Monsieur Alphonse declared categorically while tapping his index finger on the counter. "I always told her that she was not to engage in conversation with costumers and should refuse their advances. This is not a brothel."

"And women? Did she have any women friends?"

"She talked about her neighbors often. And there was a…sister in law, I think. They got together sometimes but I don't even remember her name."

"Well," Philippe sighed, standing from the stool, "we are likely to return with more questions as soon as we know more about the case. You would do well to be available."

"But hopefully you will return at decent hours?"

"Available at all hours," Javert said and placed his hat on again. "Justice doesn't sleep Monsieur."

They strode to the door and Monsieur Alphonse held it open for them in an obsequious gesture that was not able to hide his urgency in seeing them out. Philippe had already stepped outside when Javert grasped the knob and stared directly at the face of the innkeeper. "Oh, I almost forgot. One last thing. Did you pay her when you slept with her?"

The man paled. "What…? I did not! What…"

"Do not lie to me," Javert whispered dangerously taking a step towards him. "I can see it."

The inspector saw the older man swallowing and didn't relent.

"I never paid her," Monsieur Alphonse whispered. "She needed to eat."

Javert's eyes narrowed and the grip around the knob tightened. It took him a few seconds to let go of the door after closing it himself. When he turned Philippe was looking at him with a small smile. It was too dark and Javert's mind was not used to think of smiles in such terms, but there was a touch of endearment in the way the Officier de paix was observing his former inspector.

"Do you think it is important?"

"That they were sleeping together? Well…" Javert mused, "it could be considered whoring could it not? She was sleeping with him in exchange for something."

"Many people do that," Philippe commented. "Even married couples."

Javert snorted. "How would you know? You have never been married. To the despair of the Prefect, I must add."

"I have heard," he answered vaguely. "I don't think she can be considered a whore. And I don't believe that the man who visited them on those three nights thought she was one."

Javert hummed in agreement. "So you think that man has something to do with this?"

"It is our best lead, so far. A foreigner. A man who seemed well off but still goes to that hole? He had to have an inner motive."

"And how do you propose to find this man?"

* * *

They tried. Javert had to give Philippe the credit for no other man in the city was more organized and methodical. He wrote down the description that Monsieur Alphonse had given them and passed them over to every sergeant de villes, to every sous-brigadier, to every commissaire in the arrondissement. He organized searches to every inn in the area, every house that could lodge people. He had told Javert that he had wanted to widen the search to other neighborhoods but the Prefecture was raising difficulties. "As they always do," Philippe had said aloud for everyone to hear one afternoon a week after the body was found. He was sitting on a secretary stuffed with papers and reports. He admitted that they didn't want him barging into hotels searching for a man whose name he didn't even know.

"Javert," he had added, lowering his voice, "I don't know for long I will manage to keep this investigation. Rumors are that Vidocq will be leaving the Sûreté. I can't afford to upset the Prefecture."

Javert had mumbled something under his breath which implied that he wasn't about to give up. He took it upon himself to follow every possible lead. Unfortunately, however, no one else had seen the man and the description was still far too vague. It was also true that the suspect could have grown a beard or sideburns or a moustache or changed his hairstyle. The former sister-in-law also hadn't been of much help and Joséphine's neighbors were considerate but useless: all said she was a nice, quiet young woman for whom life had been unkind.

Weeks dragged on, September came and the initial vigour of the investigation was lost. Béranger got distracted with a group of vandals that attacked young ladies in Jardin des plantes, and everyone became acutely aware of the machinations inside the Prefecture and the conflict between Gisquet and Vidocq. Javert was left once more alone with the case since most of his colleagues had been reassigned and in truth so had he but he was too stubborn to give it a rest.

Valjean had also regained a new interest in the case although in the beginning he had tried not to ask many questions. He and Javert had established a strange routine in those weeks. Two days after Valjean left him and Michel, Javert had sent him a note through the means of a young gamin. They met once again in the inn at the end of Javert's street and had supper together. Valjean had been shy, hesitant, not quite knowing how to deal with this Javert, the Javert who had broken in front of him but the inspector had paid little attention to his scruples. As soon as they sat down he had started to blabber about the case and Valjean grew more and more interested. Sometimes Valjean wondered if Javert was not merely in need of someone to talk to since his colleagues at work were already too tired of listening to him.

He was reminded briefly that he ought to somehow instruct Javert in the ways of kindness and goodness and change. But he found the inspector in a strange mixture of excitement and concern and was not capable of bringing up the mission he had assigned to himself. He had also realized that there could be way of using the case as a means to get closer to Javert. He needn't try too hard. They had started by meeting in the tavern two times a week but towards the end of the month Javert surprised him when he invited him to dine at his house.

"I don't have your money," he said when he invited him. "I have to make do for myself."

Valjean knew better than to offer to pay for the meals and so three days afterwards, on a Saturday, he found himself inside Javert's apartment, sitting at the table while Javert cooked. Valjean observed him in utter fascination while the inspector cut off some herbs and onions with the expertise of a professional and looked over to the stove keeping the roasted mushrooms under his watchful gaze.

"I didn't know you could cook," Valjean uttered doing his utmost to hide his astonishment.

"What you don't know Valjean," said Javert, "would be enough to fill many books."

And it smelled good which was even more surprising. Once again Valjean was forced to realize how little he knew about this man. It was plain that Javert didn't have much money. Valjean never gave much thought about Javert's salary but obviously it wasn't much considering how small and sparse the apartment was and how simple was the meal. Javert placed his plate in front of him: roasted mushrooms with olive oil, onions, garlic and herbs. There was bread and water. It was a modest meal made somehow appealing by Javert's obvious skills.

He attentively examined the mushroom on his fork. "You know, if I wanted to kill you I would chose a less obvious way," Javert told him while chewing.

"I…I just never thought you would cook."

"As I told you, I can't afford to have supper in the inn every night. I learned a long time ago that it would be cheaper if I just bought some vegetables and the occasional pound of meat and cooked them at home."

"It's very reasonable," Valjean said still looking at his fork. Javert had decided to ignore this, leaving the older man to his own devices. Valjean finally placed the mushroom inside his mouth raising his eyebrows when the flavor spread.

"Javert…" he started, "this is very good!"

"You don't need to look so surprised. If I have to cook at least I can make it edible."

Valjean paid little attention to this for he was now fully focused on the dish. A small moan of appreciation escaped him. "Not even Touissant's cooking tastes so good and she's had years of practice."

"So have I," Javert watched Valjean and his lips curled into a tight grin. "And I actually do enjoy it."

Following evenings were spent in a similar manner and Valjean came to realize that a month had passed since the night Joséphine died and he and the inspector had managed to get together and maintain civil conversations for a couple of hours every week. He thought it was quite an accomplishment. Javert would often discuss the case and Valjean would observe his movements absentmindedly, infinitely glad that the inspector rarely required a reply. Javert working and thinking was a machine and it allowed Valjean some peace of mind. While he was trying to focus on Javert's words, on his theories about who the mysterious man could be, about why the murderer suddenly decided to kill a tavern girl and not a prostitute, he would not think about Cosette and her marriage to Marius whose health had improved greatly in the last weeks. He still spent most of his time in bed but the doctor had allowed him to take a stroll through the gardens, catch a little fresh air. Cosette had been there when he did so. She had looked happy and it occurred to Valjean that this would be how the rest of her life would be spent. Looking after Marius, smiling at him fondly, strolling across the garden.

"Are you listening to me, Valjean?"

"What?"

"You weren't." Javert had just cleaned the table and busied himself with washing the dishes. Valjean moved to help but Javert gestured for him to remain seated. "I asked you about the girl you saved from the streets, Thénardier's daughter. What has become of her?"

"Azelma," Vajean leaned back in the chair. "She's still living with us. She and Cosette have become rather close. Azelma tries to help at home but neither Touissant nor Cosette like when she does so."

In truth, Valjean hadn't thought of what would become of Azelma. He had never thought the girl would stay with them for so long but somehow he didn't see her leaving Cosette any time soon. She was grateful to him yes, but still regarded him as a sort of angel who saved her, someone to be venerated, not talked to. He could see that she found him intimidating and Valjean did not imagine himself keeping her as a maid after Cosette left. But then again, Valjean did not like to think about what would happen to his life after Cosette left. There was a blank space there, as though he was thinking of a very distant, unimaginable future.

"I suspect that Cosette will try to find a position for her once she marries Marius," he ended up uttering.

Javert turned from the counter. "You do not like the boy." He declared, underlining the "you".

"What?"

"You have been dinning at my house for what? Two? Three weeks? I have talked on and on about the case. I have talked about my police station and how I think Béranger is an idiot. You know the names of all my colleagues. But you, you haven't yet told me how you plan to help me to…how was it? Ah, to understand you and how you were able to change so radically!"

"Do you not think I am a good man?" Valjean countered, "You allow me to eat from your table."

Javert rolled his eyes and then mumbled, "you are a good man. I just don't understand how although my sanity depends on it. I am trying to, however. Wasn't that what you proposed?"

Valjean nodded slowly. He spread his arms. "I am here. Ask me anything."

"It's not so much what I want to ask but what you don't want to tell. Why is that you were so ready to tell me about your past on that night you barged into my house a month ago, but you can't even bring himself to tell me about your daughter's wedding."

The older man started to chuckle in that self-deprecating manner that had become sadly characteristic of him. "That is rich coming from you, Inspector. As you said, I've been dining at your house for the last three weeks, two days a week, including Sundays, and yet I don't even know your first name."

Javert bit the inside of his cheek. "You haven't asked," he offered lamely.

Valjean smiled. "What is your name?"

Javert picked up a chair roughly and turned it around before sitting on it, legs on each side, supporting his arms on the top rail. "Let's play a game."

Valjean crossed his arms in front of his chest but the smile widened. It was strange to see Javert so at ease around him even if he did it unconsciously. And stranger still was to see how he was getting used to it. "Oh?"

Javert scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "You try to guess my name and I will try to guess why you are so upset with your daughter's marriage."

"I am not upset with Cosette's marriage."

The inspector snorted. "Your daughter, the girl you raised is about to marry and you have barely mentioned this fact."

"You want us to discuss wedding arrangements?" Valjean asked innocently.

Javert rolled his eyes. "Does she know where you go when you leave at night? After all, as you said, you have left your house every two nights for the past weeks. Usually on the same days. Surely, this is a pattern she would find strange."

Valjean was uncomfortable but made an effort to disguise. Attack was the best form of defense sometimes and so he asked back, "Why is that you have decided to be so friendly towards me?"

"Friendly? To you?"

"You invited me to dine with you at the inn. Then you opened the door of your house to me."

"Don't be so sentimental…" Javert scoffed but Valjean ignored him.

"Why? Only a month ago you were shouting at me to get out of your sight."

Javert shrugged. "You were right. I have you try to solve you. Try to understand your mystery. It is the only way I can…survive. And I can't accomplish that if I don't talk to you."

"So you want to survive?" Valjean's lips were again threatening to break into a smile.

Javert lowered his gaze. All flattered amusement left Valjean and he was invaded by a surge of self hatred. He shouldn't have asked any of these questions. He should have let Javert mock him for Cosette's wedding and kept his mouth shut about it.

"There are things for me to live for." Javert finally said. "For now, at least. That man who killed those women…the man who stabbed you, he escaped me in that alley. I ran after him and he escaped me." The inspector raised his eyes to meet his. "If I had caught him then he wouldn't have killed this girl, this Joséphine. It is my duty to find him."

Valjean was smiling a full smile now. "Cosette is used to my queer ways. She doesn't really ask questions when I leave at night or when I do something out of ordinary. And you can too easily guess that along the years I did behave somehow…unusually."

Javert nodded, his gaze lost in space for a while.

"You didn't tell me your name."

"You didn't try to guess it." Javert murmured faintly still immersed in his own thoughts.

Valjean rolled his eyes. "I am not good at riddles," he said. "You're not called Jean are you?"

Javert snapped out of his reverie finally, as he raised his gaze to meet Valjean's. "No, I am not."

Valjean unconsciously placed his hand over his breast pocket. Javert was following this motion and he bit down his lips when their eyes met. He sighed tiredly. He had been dreading Cosette's company lately, he was afraid of that feeling of pure pain that suffocated him and anguished him every time he heard her speak of Marius.

"I have received a letter from Marianne's mother, from Faverolles."

Javert's head snapped up. "She can write?"

"She explains in the letter that the gentleman from the post office helped her to write. She thanks me for giving her the news and for my kindness."

"For the money you mean?"

"She's a widow," Valjean pressed on paying no attention to Javert's provocation. "Her husband died a few years ago and Marianne came to Paris to make some money for her mother."

"You're going to continue to give her money aren't you?"

"She must be older than me," Valjean murmured. He had fixed a point of Javert's chest to avoid his face. "Her name is Aurore. I don't remember her and for what she says she's lived there all her life."

Javert's gaze surveyed him but Valjean avoided it stoically. "You never heard of your family? I know you made inquiries about them a few years ago. You never tried again?"

Valjean shook his head slowly. "There was no use. They vanished. I know that a nephew and my sister came to Paris but…well. God knows what happened to them. Even if they were alive which is doubtful…where would I look? They had no papers, I don't know where they went. I know nothing."

His voice was calm but filled with grief. It would be preferably to face Cosette than to review all these memories. It had been a jest until the moment he remembered that his sister had been called Jeanne and they had been both named after their father. Javert was not much help either although Valjean didn't expect him to be. He supposed he was fortunate enough that the inspector hadn't snapped at him yet._ I mustn't ask too much of him_, Valjean reminded himself.

Javert who had said nothing to this felt grateful when a strong hand knocked on the door. He jumped from his seat and Valjean seemed to have awakened from a dream. He rose from his chair and alarmingly looked at Javert who moved to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Vidocq. Open this door. I can swear I have rats going up my leg already."

Javert frowned deeply as Valjean's heart skipped a beat. "What is he doing here?" Javert turned his head to him and saw the panic imprinted on his expression.

"I don't know, but don't worry."

He opened the door and Vidocq marched in. Never did the sentence "as though he owned the place" seem more appropriated, Valjean thought. He wondered if this was the first time Vidocq came to Javert's house.

"What's got into you?" Javert did not bother to disguise his annoyance.

"So this is where you live." Vidocq commented, throwing his hat onto Javert's armchair.

"What are you doing here?" Javert insisted but Vidocq seemed more interested in staring directly at Valjean whose palms had become damp with sweat. He wanted to loosen his tie but he knew it would been seen as a sign of weakness. Something told him that Vidocq was nearly as observant as Javert.

"I didn't know you had company. Isn't it a bit late?" Vidocq raised an amusing eyebrow and diverted his attention to Javert, measuring him now with narrowing eyes. "I always suspected you were one of those."

Something in his tone made Valjean even more uncomfortable. "One of those?"

Vidocq ignored him and continued to jape at the inspector. "But I had thought that Gilbert was more to your taste. I don't think he would mind ha…"

Javert had grown red from what Valjean could only guess was fury. "Can you explain to me why you have barged into my house and why I am still putting up with you?" The inspector spat.

Vidocq smiled. "Easy now, inspector. I am sorry." He looked at Valjean once more expectantly but Javert made no effort to introduce them.

"I can go…" Valjean offered.

"No, you stay."

"He's a citizen. What I have to tell you has to do with police business."

Javert didn't move a muscle. "He stays." Valjean desperately wanted to leave but he had just become part of whatever point Javert was trying to prove to Vidocq, a way of regaining the control that the chief of the Sûreté had taken from him.

Vidocq seemed only mildly amused. Valjean almost envied him for that.

"Alright." But the smile vanished and he became deadly serious. The change was so noticeable that even Javert's fury lessened.

"What happened?"

"Montparnasse escaped La Force."

"What?" Javert shouted.

"Calm down now," Vidocq told him dismissively.

"Calm? How can you be calm? Montparnasse…"

"They escaped. And Babet too. It's not the first time."

"And that excuses it?" Javert bellowed while Vidocq sat on the armchair, joining the tips of his hands together.

"No, it doesn't. But this time is more serious. Shouting and panicking will not help."

Javert's narrowed his eyes and stared suspiciously at Vidocq. "No. You don't behave like this. You shout and you panic just as much as I do. Why are you not doing that? Why have you entered my house making sport of me while Montparnasse and Babet escaped La Force?"

Vidocq made a sound that could be either a snort or a chuckle. "It is a pity we never got along, Javert. You are smart."

"You're leaving the Sûreté," Javert whispered. "It's true then."

Vidocq raised his head in a very dignified manner. "The news of Montparnasse's escape will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. And in three weeks, more or less, I will deliver my resignation." He paused dramatically but Javert merely looked pointedly at him. "Gisquet will establish a new Sûreté. New people, new place. I believe they will finally move the second division to the Prefecture. That's his plan anyway. As far as I'm aware, he has had some meetings with Pierre Allard."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To ask for a favour. Don't do anything stupid in this near future. Gisquet feels indebted to you because of what happened in the barricade. He compares my conduct and the behavior of my agents to yours and praises you."

"I am unmarried and you know where I come from."

"I know because Gilbert told me. But he was drunk. He didn't tell anyone else."

"That he remembers," Javert muttered. A small part of Valjean hoped that either of them would deepen this subject. Where did Javert come from and why was it such a big secret?

Vidocq dismissed this with a flick of hand. "You are competent and smart and Gisquet is not so much of an idiot that he will waste that. You probably won't become an Officier de Paix but I am certain he wants you in the Sûreté. Even he can see that you are wasted working for a fool like Béranger. Furthermore, he knows that it's really you who looks over the quartier."

Javert was silent. He moved to sit on the settee closer to Vidocq than before. Valjean who had cowered over the kitchen area settled on his chair.

"Alright," Javert said. "Then what do you want from me?"

"I am leaving and I don't know what I will do yet. I have toyed with the idea of setting a private agency with my boys." Javert rolled his eyes but Vidocq pretended not to see. "But I have something to tell you first."

Vidocq leaned forward, prompting Javert to do the same.

"I suspect that the man who contributed to the escape of Montparnasse and Babet is the same who was behind those robberies back in 1831."

Javert didn't need to ask what Vidocq was referring to. Every policeman in Paris knew about that case. A series of robberies to the houses of noble men and rich bourgeois and the occasional jewelry store that had began as mysteriously as they had ended. Since the beginning of the year they had stopped, although the culprits had never been caught.

"How do you know?"

"Because while I was investigating those cases there was a name that my informants always heard but never saw and I know that a guard who was bribed in La Force two days ago whispered this same name to my little birds."

Javert rubbed his eyes. "Who? Who is this man?"

"I know nothing of him except his name or nickname: Sala."

"Sala?"

"Yes."

"Don't we know anything else about this man?"

"No, just a name. He is a new man. We haven't heard of him before last year."

"That's not very helpful," Javert commented and Valjean resisted the urge to tell him to be nicer. Vidocq was being very considerate. Could Javert loathe him so much because he was a former criminal?

"It's what I have. The robberies were exceedingly well done. They left no clues."

"Why are you telling me this? You don't even know if I am really going to take part in this new Sûreté and even if I did I won't be in a position of command."

Vidocq nodded. "Yes, that is all true. But you are also smart and honourable and honest and those are terrifying qualities in this world."

Javert bit the inside of his cheek and sank against the back of the settee. He looked suddenly very tired, the face of a man who found he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Valjean was suddenly made aware of how late it was. He ought to be going home but hesitated as he looked upon the Inspector.

Vidocq stood up and placed a hand on Javert's shoulder. "I know you don't like me. I understand why. I can see why everything that happened to me seems unfair to you. I am the first to admit that life was kind to me in ways it wasn't to you."

"Can we please not do this Vidocq?" Javert hissed. "You sound absurd and you make me look ridiculous."

"But if you need me you know where to find me. Good luck, Inspector." He picked his hat and placed it on his head. He went to the door on his own and tipped his hat to Valjean before he closed it.


	11. Marshals of France

**I'm really sorry for the delay. But we're getting into the tricky part of the story so...All the reviews are cherished. And I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

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Javert had polished his boots and ironed his shirt and trousers. He had brushed his greatcoat for hours until it shined but even then he was not able to disguise the mends. No matter, he thought, it was still an impressive piece of clothing that fit him perfectly. Although never a vain man Javert knew the importance of a good appearance, of looking irreproachable. An irreproachable appearance was the sign of proud, righteous man. That was his view.

Javert took off his hat as he stepped inside the building of the Prefecture of Paris in Rue de Jerusalem. The entrance Hall was heavily illuminated with a large, polished chandelier. Its crystals shone, sending rays of yellow lights through the chamber. He had been there often times before and never stopped to admire it. He always crossed the hall with large steps, looking ahead, never stopping to talk with anyone. Decidedly he climbed up the stairs two at the time until he reached the third floor.

"Ah!" said a voice, "Monsieur Javert? Inspector Javert?"

"Yes," the inspector found his hand being shaken firmly.

"How do you do? I'm Louis Canler." He made a pause, expecting Javert to recognize the name. Javert surveyed him quickly. The man in front of him was of medium height. He sported a dark hair perfectly combed and a light stubble. His eyes were bright and smiling and his whole countenance was one of confidence and sympathy. Javert found that even his own lips had curled up in a small smile.

"How do you do sir?"

"Come with me, inspector." He placed a hand on Javert's elbow and opened doors for him to pass. "You are very punctual. I like that. Some of your colleagues were not so considerate."

"Thank you sir," Javert answered prudently not wanting to make further comments.

Canler led him to a small office, probably his own, and bided him to sit down. Light brown and empty walls surrounded them and there were semi empty bookshelves and a small coffee table with two saucers and a teapot. The desk was large and filled with paperwork that Canler was in vain trying to put together. "You must forgive me," he started apologetically while formed three different piles on his right. "These days have been a bit chaotic." He left a small file in front of him which he opened after shooting another smile at Javert.

"Well, you must know why you're here."

"I would not like to speculate sir."

Canler nodded. "Would you like some coffee?"

"If you're having, sir."

Canler stood up again and moved to fill him a cup. "Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

The coffee was not hot but warm and Javert drank half of the cup in the first swig. He faced Canler again. "As you know, Inspector…as you surely know since everyone in Paris is aware Vidocq will be leaving the Sûreté. Monsieur le Préfet has decided to restructure the organization. First, it shall be moved here to the Prefecture. Secondly, we are calling new people to our ranks. We will have a new chief, an inspecteur principal and four brigadiers which will command directly twenty one inspecteurs. One of our brigadiers, it has been decided, will be Philippe Gilbert who I believe you know well."

"Yes, I worked with him some years ago."

Canler sighed. "Philippe is admittedly not a very conventional choice. It is true he is not married and there are some questionable rumors about him, but he had a very decent education, lives in a good house and he's clean. That is important. And he is intelligent and fair. In fact, when we met he said jokingly that you were the only man in Paris who was even more incorruptible than him."

Javert tilted his head. "I have the greatest regard for Monsieur Gilbert."

"And you two work well together, I've gathered."

"I would like to believe so, sir."

Canler's smile widened. "Each brigadier will command five inspecteurs. The remaining one will serve as a liason agent between the brigadiers and ourselves, Monsieur Allard and me, that is."

There was pride in his voice, Javert noted. This was a man happy to be in a position of command.

"Gilbert expressively asked for you. He praised your qualities and he talked about your work in the Commissariat of Jardin du Roi. So I went on and did a bit of research on you."

Javert straightened his back in the chair and watched Canler reading his file. "It is an honour to be recognized, sir."

Canler ignored this. "I must say Inspector, you have an impeccable record. You volunteered to the army…during the Directory. You served for five years from 1797 to 1802. In the army of the Danube wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you serve under Jourdan or Masséna?"

"I served under General Masséna." There was a hint of pride in Javert's tone that he tried in vain to disguise.

"Don't worry, Javert. You are among friends here. I too was a man of the Emperor."

"I did not serve the Emperor, sir." Javert said very serious. "I served the Directory and the Consul."

Canler chuckled. "Very well, you are right. You are a monarchist are you not?"

"I now serve the King."

Canler nodded. He stayed immobile for a moment and then he frowned deeply and leaned forward, looking directly at Javert. "How was Masséna?"

Javert smirked. "Brave like Ney, smart like Bernadotte and lucky like Soult."

Canler exploded in laughter. "That is a very good definition. I knew Ney. He was a brave devil. Not as much as Lannes though. Lannes was a hero if ever was one. And Bernadotte became King and Soult is…our Prime Minister."

"He is an honourable man. I have the greatest respect for him." Javert said solemnly.

"Of course, otherwise you wouldn't be here." The remains of laughter subdued and he returned his attention to the file. "After the Piece of Amiens, you returned to Toulon…you had been born there?"

"I was born in Hyères sir."

"Oh yes. So you went to Toulon after the treaty and you became a guard in the Bagne. You were an argousin? And then you were promoted to sous-cômes and then cômes?" Javert nodded. "Some years after that you applied to a vacant post and were hired by the Mayor to serve as an agent in the Commissariat of Police of Toulon."

"Yes," Javert said. "I was hired on recommendation of Monsieur Thierry the Commissaire de chiomes."

"I see…" Canler murmured absentmindedly. He raised his head after a few moments. "But you would have earned more money in the bagne wouldn't you? I remember that, my father was the director of a prison. Why did you leave?" 

"The work of an inspector was more interesting. I was working directly with the Maire but also with the Commissaire and I thought I was doing more to protect the public order," Javert answered carefully. He was aware that only a few months ago his answer might have been different. In the Bagne, he thought, those men had little hope of redemption, there was no goodness there. They were criminals. Now, of course, he knew that some of them at least would have been able to change. Valjean had. Perhaps others did too.

"That is very…unusual." He gave the inspector a calculated look. He seemed about to say something but changed his mind and resumed his reading. Javert sat there in silence willing his hands not to fidget. "You met M. Chabouillet in Toulon?"

"Yes," Javert nodded. "He had been sent by the Prefecture in Paris after a dangerous gang who had escaped to the South. I was fortunate enough to take part in the investigation and Monsieur Chabouillet took an interest in my career. I then become the inspector of M-sur-Mer and then some years later I was employed in Paris." He bit back the "finally" that burned on the tip of his tongue.

"In M-Sur-Mer…" Canler murmured thoughtfully. "That's the city where the mayor was an escaped convict wasn't it? I remember reading about that story."

Javert tensed up. He should have known the subject of Jean Valjean would come up. "Yes. He was."

"You recognized him from Toulon, I imagine?" If Javert had been paranoid he would have thought that the look on Canler's face was far too knowing, far too cunning. He shook this thought off immediately.

"Yes, I did. I remembered him."

Canler smiled. Javert forced himself to look into his face and hated how he could feel the trickle of sweat that was running down his spine. "Must have been a great shock for you…a former convict now a mayor…" he chuckled, "it sounds like something from a book."

"It was a shock," Javert agreed with what he hoped was that familiar tone of good sense and soundness that proper people used. "And a difficult situation for me."

Canler waved a hand. "Oh I have no idea how I would react in such a situation…I am certain you did the best you could." A pause. And then, "what became of him?"

Javert opened his mouth and found in horror and he could only answer with a lie. He pursed his lips firmly together to avoid showing the distress he was feeling. "He died," the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "He died in Toulon only a short while after he was returned to the Bagne."

"Ah!" Canler snapped his fingers. "I thought it had been something like that but I couldn't quite remember it."

Javert was free to let his gaze lower.

Canler read and nodded while reading as if in agreement. Javert waited and it reminded him of the times as a child when the priest who taught him how to read and write would examine his letters. Javert would stand very still in front of him looking ahead waiting anxiously for him to finish.

"You have a great record, Inspector. All your superiors praise your diligence, your efficiency and more importantly, your honesty."

Canler made a pregnant pause. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward in a conspiratory manner. "I'll be frank with you, Javert. Vidocq was a brave man and an intelligent man. I'm the first to admit that. I didn't like him at all but I admit it. He is very bright, smart. But you know why he was so good? Because he was also a criminal. He knew their ways, their tricks. Now you can ask, very well he was a criminal but he redeemed himself and he was on our side so what's the harm? The harm Javert," Louis Canler tapped his index finger on the table categorically, "is that men like that can never change. Yes Vidocq committed no more crimes but he had it in him. The rebellion, the disregard for rules, the rude and inappropriate behavior. A policeman must set an example. You can't go on and drink yourself until you fall off and brawl like a common idiot. We must be better than that otherwise we will always be looked down by everyone. Do you understand?"

Javert's eyes met his. He nodded. "I do, sir." He wasn't asked if he agreed for there the answer might be different. He thought Canler was right about how the police should set the example. He also thought that Vidocq had always behaved appallingly and it was high time he left the Sûreté, that there were too many scandals over the years and after a while the failures ceased to compensate the successes. But he found himself thinking about Valjean, and how seemingly Valjean didn't "have it in him" like Vidocq did. Valjean was proper and religious even. Valjean who had saved his life…could it be that Canler was right nonetheless?

Javert rubbed his forehead. "Is everything alright, Javert?" asked Canler.

"Yes, sir. Forgive me. You were saying?"

"I was saying that here you will be dealing with criminals. With people who commit serious offenses. We're not talking about the man who steals fruit from a tree or the woman who has a row with her husband. You will still have your patrols and your paperwork but more than that we are talking about men and women who offer a true and real danger to society. Murderers, smugglers, rapists, the scum of the Earth. And we are not looking for bureaucrats who know how to fill a form. We are looking for smart, cunning men who can find their way out of any kind of situation. But most of all, we're looking for honest men, proper men. And believe me, this is a difficult combination."

Javert thought about the best way to answer without sounding too presumptuous. He regarded Canler with respect as he did all his superiors but was started to get annoyed at the condescendence in the younger man's tone. What did he think, he had been a prison guard in a bagne, he had been an inspector in Paris for the last ten years, did he really believe that Javert had never dealt with dangerous situations? That he spent his days filling forms and writing reports? For God's sake, the inspector mentally scoffed.

"I have always done my duty in the best of my abilities, sir. And I shall continue to do so if I enter the Sûreté."

Louis Canler gave him a large smile. "I have no doubt inspector," he said with sincerity. "So, it is decided. You are to enter the department on the first of January, that's when we officially initiate our new functions. Until then you shall remain in your quartier, proceeding with your usual duties while attending some meetings here."

The tone carried the usual definitiveness one used to finish a conversation and Javert stood up. "Sir?" He said, "there is a case that I hope is solved until the first of January. But if it is not then I think it would be in the interest of the Sûreté to look into it."

Canler frowned for a second and Javert feared he had gone too far. "Oh, yes the case of the dead prostitutes isn't it?"

"Not only prostitutes sir. A tavern wench was found dead a few weeks ago."

"Very well. If you don't find those responsible in the meanwhile I'm certain we can find space to investigate the matter. Especially," he added in afterthought, "if, God forbid, the crimes continue."

Javert went to the door and his hand was already on the knob when Canler told him, "Ah I forgot almost. I know that this doesn't apply to you but I'm obliged to tell it to everyone. Some former Sûreté agents associated often with criminals. Not just men who were on parole but they had informants amongst the scoundrels of the city. As you surely understand, this is a most unadvisable behavior. I know this doesn't apply to you but you see, formalities. I have to transmit the information no matter how obvious it is."

"I understand sir," he replied neutrally. His hand however, had tightened around the golden knob.

When Javert reached the street he breathed in the cool air of November and welcomed the chill of his bones. He liked the cold; it allowed him to think better, it sharpened his sense. Then he shook his head in disappointment and headed home.

* * *

Valjean became aware of the murderer of a baker's wife one morning towards the end of the month when he read it in a newspaper. It was a small piece of news in the middle pages. The name of the baker called his attention. Monsieur Marrillac. He had heard it somewhere though he could not quite place where or when. And the crime had occurred in Javert's arrondissement.

He frowned and put down the paper, staring blankly at nowhere for a long time, deep in thought.

"Father?" Said Cosette, "Are you unwell?" He didn't answer. "Father?"

He was startled, "I'm sorry, my dear. Forgive me. I was just thinking. You were saying?"

"I was thinking about a conversation I had with Marius," she started. He noticed that she had put down her cup.

"Oh?" Valjean for a moment hoped she wouldn't begin to talk about wedding arrangements. Jean Valjean who had never married and whose experiences with weddings were limited to watching the bride and bridegroom leaving the church had become knowledgeable in everything that surrounded the event: from flowers to menus to how the invitations should be written. It pleased Cosette and so he indulged her and helped in what he could (especially when the matter was money, though he did so in a manner that neither Cosette or Marius or Monsieur Gillenormand realized that the whole thing was being paid by Valjean.)

"Well, I don't know what you intend to do after Marius and I marry. I know you still have the house in Rue Plumet…and truly, I don't understand why you have chosen to stay here. It's such a bleak place…"

"It suffices for me," Valjean said. "I never needed much. Rue Plumet was your house, not mine."

_And our happiness. _He wasn't able to block the miserable thought._ It was our happiness, and now it is no more._

"Yes, but if you do not intend to return there then perhaps you would live with us."

"With you?" Valjean repeated dumbly.

"Yes…Marius has decided that we are to live in his grandfather's house. Monsieur Gillenormand insisted and he is right. The house is very big." Cosette gazed upon her father with fondness. "Big enough for all of us."

Valjean was looking into her eyes when he realized her meaning. "You want me to go live with you?" he uttered in astonishment.

"Yes, of course. Why are you so surprised? You should come…I told Marius that I would not want to part from you."

She reached and grabbed his hand. Valjean's chest became constricted and a knot was formed at the base of his throat. "Cosette…" he trailed off for a moment trying desperately to grasp his thoughts and emotions and make sense of them. "You are to be married. I would not impose like that."

"But it's not an imposition! Monsieur Gillenormand and Marius's aunt are there too. I simply wish we could all live together. Like a family."

Her hand remained on his but Valjean was fighting the urge to pull away. _It's not my family,_ Valjean wanted to tell her, _I'm not your family. I never was. I stole my happiness with you as I stole my way into this world. Do I dare to steal even more?_

He settled for a gentle pat on the back of her hand. "We shall see to that after you are married."

* * *

To distract himself from the conversation with Cosette, Valjean resolved to think about Javert and the murderer of the baker's wife. He had the unpleasant feeling that this was one more of the inspector's cases and the murderer was that man who had escaped them in the alley. He also wondered why Javert hadn't sent him any more of his notes inviting (or ordering, that was more like it) him to dine at his house. It had been a month now since they had last seen each other. A couple of weeks ago Valjean, fearing that something might have happened to the inspector went to his house to see how he fared. Javert received him in a hurry for, as he had hastily explained, he had business at the police station.

He was surprised at how he missed Javert's frenetic presence and his incessant blabber and even his crooked smiles that obviously he fought hard not to show. Javert was a very welcome distraction from Cosette's marriage and from the images of those dead women which had been unsettling him since they first found Marianne's body. He had even come to admire Javert's resolution and determination in solving the case, in trying to find out who was killing those poor girls. Of course, that he was not doing it out of mercy or compassion or simple pity. Valjean was afraid to ask him what he really thought of them, was afraid that Javert would shrug or act as he did with Fantine, as if they didn't matter. He was afraid of many things when it came to the inspector and for this reason he could not understand how he had suddenly begun to miss him.

Absentmindedly, he looked at the clock. It was late and Cosette had probably gone to bed by now. Valjean stood and put on his coat and, quietly so as to not arouse attention, left the house.

* * *

The flat was cold and badly lit. There was fire in the stove but it was too weak. Javert had two candles on his desk where he had been sitting and to where he had just returned to paying no attention to Valjean. On its way he had picked a dark green blanket that had been tossed onto the bed and wrapped it around himself. Valjean stepped inside hesitantly.

"Close the door," Javert's muffled voice came from the corner. Valjean complied and then went on to him.

"How have you been?"

"I am well," a moment later he said, "Now that you know that will you leave? That is why you are here isn't it, to see if I had not killed myself yet?"

Valjean rolled his eyes. He loathed the casual tone in Javert's voice and how obvious his intentions were. He asked himself if he was that transparent or if Javert had acquired a good knowledge of his character in all those years they had known each other. And why on Earth were they returning to this phase where Valjean begged for a crumb of attention and Javert pretended not to care?

"We have not seen each other in a month," he stated quietly.

"You have been counting?"

Valjean swallowed. He was irritable. Cosette's suggestion had been hammering on his mind. Oh God, how he wanted to accept! How he wanted to say that yes, I'll go live with you and witness you love another man for the rest of my life but you would be there and I love you more than anything.

But he could not. How could he pretend like that in front of everyone they knew? How could he lie to everyone's face? He would not only be omitting. He would be plainly lying.

"For God's sake Javert!" Valejan ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

With a curious frown Javert turned his body to look at him. Valjean felt his gaze surveying him attentively and felt himself flushing. "What has got into you?" Javert asked.

"That is what I ask," Valjean replied now more calmly. "We met once or twice a week for the past months and suddenly you shun me out. Have you returned to this now?"

Javert sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. Valjean approached him further and realized that the man was likely very tired. There was an empty cup of something, (tea, coffee?) beside him that looked like it had been finished long ago. Yellowed sheets of paper filled the desk. Valjean recognized some of them. He had Javert reading them to him when they still were on speaking terms as they related to the case.

"The wife of the baker…is she another one…?"

"How do you know about that?" Javert asked very quickly dropping his hands. A second later he made a noise of understanding. "Ah. You read the news."

Valjean's silence confirmed it. He sat on the bed just behind the inspector. Javert didn't move for several long moments. The older man waited as patiently as he could but ended up asking, not able to contain himself any longer, "How did she die?"

Javert's shoulders sank with the strength of his sigh. "Do you remember that man who helped you, bringing you home that night? When you were stabbed?"

"The baker…" Valjean uttered as it hit him. "Oh dear God, please no."

"Yes," Javert answered neutrally, not turning to look at Valjean. Eventually, after a small, foreign hesitation, he elaborated, "it was his wife. Madame Isabel Marrillac. They lived near the bakery so he usually opened the shop because Madame had troubles in arising so early. She preferred to close it. Monsieur Marrillac told me that as they lived only two blocks away from the place he didn't think it would be dangerous for her to wander alone at night."

"But it was…" Valjean whispered, letting the head fall onto his hands, fingers combing through white hair. The man had helped Javert save his life. Now his wife had died at the hand of the man he hadn't been able to catch. The thought made him sick. "Are you certain it is the same man?"

"Of course," Javert bristled. "Exact same manner. Only this one was killed behind the counter."

"Good God. And did anyone see anything at all?"

Javert shook his head. "No, once more. It was likely her last costumer. She should have suspected something, who goes to a bakery at night? There's only leftovers, stale bread that people didn't buy."

"You can't really blame her," protested Valjean.

"Yes, I can! People have to pay attention. They know that women have appeared dead for the last months and that idiot leaves the wife to close the shop? In the same arrondissement? At night? It's asking for it!" Javert's voice was raised and he stood up from his seat. He began to pace. "And you!" He faced Valjean. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" Valjean asked. "What happened now? Why have we returned to this?"

"Because…" the inspector trailed off for a moment. He then emitted a groan of frustration and let himself fall on his seat again. "Because…I promised I would not associate with criminals."

Valjean arched his eyebrows. His mouth contorted into a small smile. "I thought that was what all policemen were supposed to do."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you Valjean," Javert fired back. "I was made to promise."

A flame of fear spread through Valjean's chest. "Did you tell anyone about me…that is, that I am still…"

"No," Javert answered firmly. "I did not."

"Who did you promise?"

Javert turned his chair to Valjejan. The legs scratched the floor. The sound echoed in the apartment making Valjean cringe. He had not yet properly looked at Javert and found that he looked more tired than usual, though his blue eyes were wide and alight. Sometimes Valjean wondered if they glowed in the dark like a cat's.

"I was hired by the new Sûreté. Vidocq will leave as he told us when he was here. He was right. I had a meeting with Louis Canler, he is to be the inspecteur principal."

"I see…" Valjean gave him a full smile. "But that is good isn't it? It seems a much more interesting job."

"Yes. But Canler and Allard, the new chief, they want to make certain that there are no more contacts with criminals or former criminals…or even dead criminals." He stared fixedly at Valjean while saying this and felt a little remorse when he saw the man recoil.

"I see," Valjean murmured. He could indeed see where this was going. Javert got the job he wanted. Oh he could have avoided the subject but Valjean had seen how interested the inspector had been when Vidocq mentioned this possibility all those weeks ago. He wanted it. And why wouldn't he? Being a Sûreté agent, even a low ranking one would enable him to do more than to tend to broken carts and leaky gutters. Javert enjoyed what he did and lived for it. At least he deserved to have it interesting.

Still Valjean could not hush the soft whisper inside his brain that told him that now Javert would distance himself from him and this would endanger his life again. The little voice also added that Valjean's motives were not purely selfless. That he didn't want to fear Javert again and to avoid him and hide from him. "No," he said very suddenly. When Javert glanced up at him he reddened. "No, you cannot do this again. I would not…I would not like it."

Valjean was not a whimsical man and yet these stumbled words resembled those of a pouting child. Javert fought the amused smile that threatened to break. "Valjean…"

"It's not merely that I fear for you. But we know each other a little now. I have dined at your table. You have saved my life, I have saved yours. I offered help, you took it. You understand that you can't simply send me away. It is not how things are done." He was very careful not to mention the word friendship but the implication was there anyway. "I understand that you made a promise to your superior. I was your superior once, I know how important such things are for you. But you made a promise to me too and I made a promise to you. Perhaps they were unspoken promises but they ought to be honoured nonetheless."

Javert was staring at him. "Are you rebelling?"

The blush deepened. Valjean uttered then his eyes on his shoes, "I don't want us to go back to what we were."

Javert was observing him with a kind of fascinated curiosity. "You should do that more," he murmured.

Valjean frowned, confused. "What?"

"Speaking aloud. Losing your temper. You should do it more often. It's very useful."

"I did not…"

Javert waved a dismissing hand and sighed deeply. He let his head fall back and fixed the ceiling. A moment later, all of a sudden, he stood up. So fast that Valjean drew back, surprised. Javert picked the mug and took it to kitchen, plunging into the sink. He returned to Valjean, to the window besides his desk which he opened thoughtfully. "Alright then. It is between a promise made to you and a promise made to my duty…" Javert chuckled. "This reminds me too much of the night of the barricades."

It has always unnerved Valjean how the inspector was capable of mentioning that occasion with such lightheartedness.

"People are wrong," Valjean said. "Why should you not associate with me? Do you think it's wrong?"

Javert was stuck. He closed his eyes and rubbed. "You are…" he started but didn't finish. "My superior tells me not to associate with a criminal, you are a criminal for all effects, I can't associate with you. It's simple."

"But…"

"But it's you," Javert added quickly. "You promised to help me and I…promised to accept that help." The hands on his face moved to his head, messing it even further. "I don't know. And I hate not knowing."

"Look at me, Javert," Valjean asked quietly. "Look at me. Please." The inspector did so. "Do you think it's wrong? To talk to me? To see me? To talk to me about the case when we have already shared so much about it?"

"It's not wrong but my superior…"

"Your superior is not always right!" Valjean leaned forward as though that would strengthen his point. "You disobey your superiors all the time! I remember what you said about Béranger."

"It's different, Béranger is incompetent, what I do, I do for the good of the police."

"And this?"

"This is personal," Javert admitted. "This is me, my personal feelings."

"Do you think it's morally wrong to talk to me?" Valjean's voice was demanding, forceful and he looked at Javert with a newfound intensity that surprised even himself. He did not know he could feel so strongly about this. "Forget your boss and your duty for a moment. Think for yourself. That is all I ask."

Javert furrowed his brow as if Valjean had presented him with an especially complex mathematical problem. He stared into space and Valjean waited, nervously, amazed at how the inspector could not hear his heartbeat. It echoed in his ears.

"No," Javert whispered reverently, astonished at his own revelation. "I don't. You are a good man, I know that. I may not understand but I know. And perhaps…" the frown returned. "Perhaps Canler is wrong."

A slow smile spread through Valjean's features. "Perhaps he is."

Javert sank against the chair, exhausted. A few minutes passed in expectant silence. Valjean did not want to ask about the case in fear of once more arousing Javert's frustration but he did not know what he could talk about.

The inspector solved that problem for him. "And you? Why are you so pale?"

"Pale?"

"Yes, you look awfully thoughtful. I always believed that thinking too much was a flaw of character. It only brings problems. You however, seem to suffer from that affliction."

Valjean smiled again, indecisively. Javert saw right through him and it bothered him a little that he didn't have the same power over the inspector. There was of course, in the back of his mind but always present, Cosette and her request. "It is hard to explain."

Javert was looking at him. He brought the tips of his fingers together. "I don't think it is. I think it is easy but you simply don't want to talk. So it can only about your daughter which is what you avoid most of all."

"Cosette she…" Valjean thought that air had momentarily ran out of his lungs. "She is not my daughter."

Javert didn't divert his gaze. "Doesn't she call you father?"

"Yes but…"

"Didn't you pay for her education? Feed her? Dressed her?"

"The nuns they…"

"Who put her in the nunnery?"

"You were chasing us through the streets, it was the only place I could hide."

Javert snapped his fingers and chuckled. "So that was where you hid. I always thought so but I could hardly barge into a convent with women who hadn't glanced at a man for 30 years."

"I am a man, they glanced at me."

Javert pursed his lips together. "Lucky them," he murmured half mockingly. "But you're changing the subject again. You took care of the girl, you protected her and gave her a life she could never have otherwise. She thinks you are her father."

"Only because I was too selfish and too cowardly to tell her the truth."

"What truth?" Javert asked rhetorically. "That her mother was a whore and that a big, bad policeman had killed her?"

"Javert…" Valjean started but the inspector was shaking his head furiously.

"Forget it. The point stands. You did not tell the girl. You were dishonest when you should not have been. And now, why is it a problem now?"

"She's going to marry…"

"Yes, the little revolutionary you rescued."

Valjean was certain this was another provocation but he did not take the bait . "She said today that she and Marius would like me to go live with them after they marry."

He made a pause but Javert merely raised his eyebrows. "And that is shocking why?"

Valjean rose all of a sudden from his seat on the bed. He mimicked Javert's previous actions and went over to the window, running a hand through his white hair. His breathing was slightly faster now. "Because I've been lying to her. About me and who she is. How can I face her husband, his grandfather, that house…how can I face it?"

"So you have no problems in lying to her but you can't to a large number of people?"

For the first time, Valjean recoiled. He shot a hurt look at Javert and shook his head sadly. "I should not be talking about this. You do not understand and I have no right to ask you to."

Javert stood up then and went to him, deciding to ignore this last tirade. "You are creating a problem where there is no problem."

"You are advocating a lie?"

"Then tell her the truth! Tell her, for what fault could there be? You saved her life, you saved her beau's life. She ought to thank you."

"Oh, and how will she thank me when I tell her that I am a ex-convict who escaped prison and is thought dead?"

Javert opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. He closed it again. Yes, Valjean had a point there and how could Javert not understand this when he himself had been having a crisis of conscience at associating himself with Valjean over his criminal status. Finally, he settled for saying, not knowing if he was being unnecessarily cruel or overly kind, "If she cares for you… if she realizes what you've done for her, she will forgive your sins."

* * *

Valjean moved to the sofa which was more comfortable than sitting on the edge of Javert's bed, and the inspector settled on his old, brown armchair. Valjean didn't want to leave, having realized that speaking about what ailed him helped to soothe his spirit. He asked Javert about his new job. Who was Canler, who would lead the new Sûreté. Javert told him nothing that he wouldn't have learned sooner or later in the newspapers. Valjean wondered about the case and thought even about paying Monsieur Marillac a visit but had the sense of not mentioning this to the inspector.

Javert talked about the case. He told him about the fatal wound, and who had found her (her husband who had thought she was late and went for her) and the tears on the man's cheeks when he ran down to the police station just in time to catch Javert at the end of his shift. The inspector rambled on about his theories, the mysterious man the owner of the tavern had mentioned, and whether he had anything to do with the crimes.

Although he was talking about horrific events, Javert's voice was strong and deep and Valjean had not quite realized how tired he was. His eyes closed for what he believed it would only be a few seconds. Then he would wake up and go home. For now he could just rest for a little while. Javert wouldn't even notice.

Javert's stopped talking when he heard Valjean's soft snores. He snorted in disbelief but it soon became a chuckle. He stood and threw his own blanket over Valjean. Without another look at the older man sleeping peacefully on his sofa, Javert slipped into his own bed and fell asleep within minutes.


End file.
